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theobsessivesideblog · 4 months

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Hook Where it Hurts

Astarion finds himself Experiencing Emotions™ after a battle takes a turn for the worse.

Warnings: violence/injury, death, angst BUT happy ending I promise

—————————————————————

Your time in the Underdark had been relatively uneventful, all things considered. Sure there were Minotaurs, the occasional bulette, and exploding mushrooms, but there was something strangely beautiful about the alien landscape. The myconids were a friendly, if odd and slightly bloodthirsty bunch. Your conversation with Omeluum had proved enlightening, and trade with Blurg and Derryth had garnered you some useful items. Overall you couldn’t bring yourself to regret following Halsin’s advice to take the subterranean path to the Shadow-Cursed lands.

You set up camp at the Myconid colony, heading out at first light (or at least what you assumed was first light without the actual sun to confirm) to begin your trek towards the lake Sovereign Spaw had pointed you toward. An hour into your walk a glow appeared in the distance, lighting up the gloom of the cavernous landscape.

“I say, that can’t be… I do believe that may be a Sussur tree!” Gail exclaimed from behind you. “Powerful things, and rare, uniquely capable of completely nullifying magical forces, just fascinating!” he continued, eyes alight at the prospect of examining one up close.

“Sussur… that sounds familiar,” Karlach pondered.

“Ah! Right you are my fiery friend, there were instructions in the village about making a weapon with the bark! That would likely prove to be a powerful tool, we should certainly take a look.”

You gazed towards the tree, comparing its location with the heading you had gotten from Spaw. In all likelihood you would end up passing nearby, may as well go on purpose.

“Seems like it won’t be too much of a detour,” you announced, glancing around the group. “All in favor?”

“I’d never say no to a new kick-ass weapon,” Karlach grinned.

“That’s two for, Astarion?” you asked, looking over towards the rogue.

“I doubt our resident magician will shut up about it until we pay a visit, so fine. Let’s go traipsing through the monster-infested dark to look at the magic tree,” Astarion said with a dramatic eye roll.

“Anti-magic, technically, you see the—“ Gale’s chatter came to an abrupt halt as Astarion shot him a withering glance. “Right, yes, um. Shall we?”

———————

You had to admit, the Sussur tree was breathtaking. Far larger than you had initially realized, clearly ancient and powerful. You glanced over to see your companions’ reactions, breath catching as your eyes met Astarion’s. His pale skin was nearly pearlescent in the ethereal glow, the blue light making his red eyes darker than usual. He stared back, lips pulling into a smirk, and a shiver of desire ran down your spine as he began prowling towards you. You’d been playing this game of cat and mouse for days, taking turns taunting and tempting each other and you were curious to see who would break first.

A movement behind Astarion’s shoulder broke you out of your reverie, eyes catching on a monstrous creature slowly beginning to descend toward your troupe from the raised roots of the tree. Your face paled and you saw Astarion’s brow furrow in your periphery as he registered that he had lost your attention, turning to see what had distracted you. He stiffened as he caught sight of the beast, silently reaching to retrieve an arrow while you hissed quietly towards Gale and Karlach in an attempt to get their attention. Karlach looked your way and you subtly gestured towards the creature as it crept closer to the group, trying to hold back the urge to laugh as she reached out and smacked Gale’s arm, interrupting his lecture on the properties of the blossoms.

A few more wordless glances between the four of you had everyone subtly moving into position, preparing for what was sure to be a short battle. You glanced across the clearing, locking eyes with each of your companions before giving a tight nod as all of you attacked at once. The creature let out a shriek as it was barraged by both metal and magic, falling from its root bridge and hitting the ground below with a sickening crunch.

As the adrenaline faded from your system and you walked forward to observe the corpse you were nearly disappointed by how easily the beast had fallen. Not that you ever wanted to get your ass kicked but you had certainly expected that a monster with as many teeth and claws as this one would’ve put up a bit more of a fight. Karlach had turned away with a dissatisfied pout on her lips as she sheathed her weapon and Astarion had already started to wander off to investigate the rest of the cave as you gently nudged the cooling body on the ground with the tip of your boot. It was grotesque up close, a bird-like skeletal face filled with vicious teeth and enormous, razor-sharp hooks protruding from the end of each arm in place of hands. Beside you Gale was surveying the corpse with a strangely joyous expression.

“What a fascinating beast! We got quite lucky, they’re exceptional hunters, certainly wouldn’t want to run into one of these unprepared! They’re called Hook Horrors!” he announced gleefully to no one in particular.

“Did someone say something about whores?” Astarion called from across the cavern. Karlach snorted loudly as she and Gale began making their way over towards him and you rolled your eyes as your lips curled into a smile.

“Yes, Star, Gale has deeply insulted me,” you called back sarcastically. “You may need to come defend my honor! In fact, I–”

You cut off abruptly as a shriek pierced through the air, echoing off the hard rock. You all whipped toward the sound, weapons coming back to the ready as another hook horror climbed out from behind a patch of roots close to your three companions. As you watched it emerge you distractedly thought that it would be nice to go back to fighting above ground again. The way sound bounced around the rocks always made it sound like there was something behind you, and some paranoid instinct had you sending a cursory glance back over your shoulder to calm your nerves.

You froze in place, realizing your fears had been well founded as another hook horror silently emerged from around the corner of the cavern wall and leapt towards you. You barked out a startled curse and jumped back as it took a swing at you. The first horror may have fallen easily enough against the four of you, but your companions were locked in battle on the other side of the cavern and you were well aware that a one-on-one fight was one you wouldn’t win.

You kept your eyes locked on the creature as you began backing your way across the cave, hoping you could get within range of your party before it lost patience and struck. Based on the sounds the other monster was emitting it wouldn’t be a threat for much longer. You tightened your hold on your weapon, preparing to strike as you crept back another step, heart skipping as the rock you had stepped on shifted underneath your boot. You glanced down for a split second, trying to find your footing, a sense of dread filling you as you saw the hook horror jump into motion in your peripheral vision.

The hook drove into your side and you screamed. Pain the likes of which you’d never felt before tore through you as the hook horror yanked its arm across your abdomen, tearing through your stomach. You thought you heard someone shout, but they sounded a million miles away as you collapsed to your knees before the beast, your sight dimming around the edges. You vaguely registered a flash of blades and a wet thump as the hook horror’s head hit the ground before your vision was taken over by Astarion’s panicked visage. His hands gripped your face, feeling unnaturally warm against your cheeks as the world faded away.

“No no no, you can’t die, get UP damn you!” he shouted, desperately trying to staunch the flow of blood from the jagged cut across your midsection even as a small voice in the back of his mind told him it was too late. His shaking hands were covered in your blood but he had never found it less appealing, appetite long gone as he stared at your unnaturally pale face. “Please, my sweet, don’t do this to me,” he pleaded, vision clouding as his eyes filled with tears. He saw a red blur on his left as Karlach kneeled down beside him and he instinctively curled around you protectively, arms gently slipping around your back as he clutched your unmoving form against his chest.

“Astarion, we need–”

“Give me a healing potion. Now.” he ordered, voice dangerously low.

“It’s too late, Astarion. We need to get her body back–”

“Don’t say it like that,” he growled shakily. He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, trying to steady himself but choking on the scent of your blood in the air. “A resurrection scroll then,” he demanded, glaring in Gale’s direction.

“I… it won’t work. The tree–”

Astarion snarled out a curse and pressed his forehead against your frigid cheek, desperately trying to contain the sob attempting to claw its way out of him.

“We need to get her to camp, Astarion,” Karlach repeated gently, a small line of steam rising from where a tear had just rolled her cheek. “We need Shadowheart. I can carry–”

“No,” he murmured, gently brushing a strand of hair away from your face with a trembling hand before adjusting one of his arms beneath your knees and standing with you cradled against him. “I’ve got her.”

———————

They were farther from camp than Astarion had realized, though perhaps it only felt that way because he had spent the entire walk staring at your lifeless face. He felt numb by the time they arrived, hardly hearing Karlach shout for Shadowheart as they passed the first of the tents. In the back of his mind he was aware that their other companions had gathered around them frantically asking questions, but the words didn’t register and he continued forward without acknowledging any of them. He walked to his tent in a trance, gingerly setting you down on his bedroll and kneeling at your side as his shaking hands tried to arrange your limp body into a more comfortable configuration.

“What in the hells happened?” Shadowheart snapped as Karlach pulled her roughly into the tent. He should answer, should try to explain, but he was frozen kneeling by your side, unable to pull his attention away from your unblinking eyes.

“She- she was-” Karlach bit back a sob, trying to catch her breath. “We got caught off guard. She was alone. She shouldn’t have been alone,” Karlach choked out, dissolving into tears. Shadowheart hurried to your side and knelt across from Astarion, immediately beginning to unfasten the straps on your armor and peeling the bloodied metal away from your skin.

“We need to get her cleaned up so I can see what I'm doing. Astarion, can you fetch me some water and clean washcloths?” she asked, continuing to remove your ruined clothing. When he remained unmoving she looked up to where he sat, his gaze unwaveringly focused on the brutal cut across your torso.

“Astarion,” she repeated softly, waiting as he slowly drug his gaze up to meet her eyes. “I swear to you I will do everything in my power to fix this, but I need your help.” She paused, waiting until Astarion gave a small nod of acknowledgement to rattle off the things she needed, her attention returning to your still form as Astarion rose and darted around his tent gathering what she had requested. He returned a heartbeat later, depositing the items at her side as she instructed him to wet a cloth and begin wiping away as much blood as he could.

She began chanting a prayer as he worked, hovering her hands over your sternum while he continued to gently clean your skin. Your blood had been a gift once, a delight. Now he shuddered as he attempted to ring out the bloodied rag in his hand, barely fighting the urge to retch as it dripped from his hands into the reddened bowl of water at his side.

A light sparked in Shadowheart’s hands, warm and radiant, and Astarion stopped his work, dropping the stained cloth and gently reaching out with trembling fingers to take hold of your hand. The light in her palms grew as she focused, directing its power towards you. A glowing beam split from the whole and snaked downwards, weaving through the jagged edges of your wound and drawing them together while the remainder of the light floated upward, hovering over your heart. She continued chanting, her eyes drifting closed in concentration as the glowing orb started to lower, dimming as it sunk through your skin and into your chest. The room grew silent as Shadowheart completed the incantation and lowered her hands, looking you over carefully.

“Did it… did it work?” Karlach whispered. “Is it supposed to take this long? Why isn’t she–”

Your chest rose as you gasped in air, the breath immediately turning to a cough at the uncomfortable stretch in your lungs. The air tasted of iron and magic and you frowned, trying to open your eyes to observe your surroundings but surprised to find your eyelids heavy and uncooperative. Cool fingers brushed against your face, smoothing away the furrow in your brow and you instinctively relaxed at the familiar touch.

“All is well, darling,” you heard Astarion whisper, voice sounding oddly constricted. “Rest now.”

You were still confused, still couldn't remember how you’d gotten here or what had happened. It felt as if something important had occurred, surely you shouldn’t sleep now. You heard the soft murmur of voices around you, a strained chuckle, a soft sniffle. You frowned again, struggling once more to open your eyes and earning an exasperated sigh from the vampire beside you.

“Please, pet,” he breathed, lips ghosting over your skin as he pressed a gentle kiss to your cheek. “Just sleep.”

Your sense of unease fell away as Astarion began gently running his fingers through your hair. You felt him press another soft kiss against your forehead and relaxed into him, allowing yourself to drift off in his arms.

———————

The second Shadowheart had given the all clear Astarion had insisted everyone leave his tent. It was far too crowded and he wouldn’t have them waking you up when you were clearly in no condition to face their fussing. Even as he anchored himself in the sound of your steady heartbeat he still felt restless and off-balance, hands flitting over your sleeping form looking for something more to do.

He felt ridiculous. You were here in front of him, healed and whole, and that should be the end of it. So why in the hells were his hands still trembling as he ensured your blankets were tucked around you? Why did his chest ache uncomfortably every time he caught a leftover whiff of your blood in the air?

He huffed out a frustrated breath and sat on the ground beside you, staring at your sleeping face warily. This had never been part of his plan. He was never supposed to… care. Two centuries of distancing himself and building walls and somehow you had just waltzed right past his defenses and made yourself at home. He let out a defeated sigh and reached over, extracting your hand from the blankets to weave your fingers together with his. His gaze drifted to the steady rise and fall of your breathing and he found himself matching your pace, the tightly wound coil in his chest finally starting to loosen as you let out a soft snore.

Tomorrow, he decided. Tomorrow he could deal with figuring out why that sound made him smile. Tomorrow he could obsess over how even just holding your hand made his whole body feel warmer. Tomorrow he could deal with the fact that in over 200 years of life he’d never before been as completely and utterly terrified as he had been today. For now, though, he would indulge. For tonight he would just let himself have this, whatever ‘this’ was. He closed his eyes and lifted your hand to his face, gently brushing his lips across your knuckles as he settled in to watch over you until morning.

———————

The passage of time in the Underdark still confused you. You woke to the same darkness you had fallen asleep in, groggily wondering what time it was and how long you had been in bed. Your mouth was dry and your head was pounding. Had you been drinking? That would certainly explain why you couldn’t remember how you had gotten here. As unappealing as getting up sounded, you were parched and you couldn’t stay here forever. You hoisted yourself up and froze as pain suddenly lanced through you, your vision flickering and arms giving out as you whimpered and fell back toward your pillow only to be caught by a pair of cold, pale arms.

“I wouldn’t recommend moving just yet, darling,” Astarion said, looking down at you with a worried frown on his face as he lowered you gently back to the bedroll. “Shadowheart did as much as she could last night but it took a lot out of her to bring you back. You’re not going anywhere until she’s gotten a chance to check on you again.” He leaned across you, determinedly avoiding meeting your eyes as he made sure your pillow was adequately fluffed. You saw a slight tremor run through him and heard a catch in his breath before he stood abruptly and walked across the tent, silently pouring you a glass of water from the pitcher in the corner.

“Bring me… back?” you questioned. Astarion stilled, jaw clenching as you took him in. His normally flawlessly tousled hair was tangled as if he had been running his hands through it and streaks of blood threaded through the white locks. There were dark circles under his eyes and his skin looked even paler than normal, nearly translucent in the dim light. Your eyes flitted down to his wrinkled, untucked shirt and then around the tent, catching on the blood-soaked pile of clothes and armor to the side of the entrance and the red-stained towels laying by a bowl of water next to the bedroll. A dim memory flashed through your mind: a tree, an ambush, excruciating pain, and then… nothing.

“Oh.” you whispered, exhaling shakily as you felt your chest constrict, breaths turning quick and shallow as the air seemed to thin. Astarion was by your side in an instant, one hand smoothing back your hair while the other cupped your cheek, his thumb gently wiping away a tear you hadn’t even realized had fallen.

“It’s alright, darling, just breathe. You’re safe now.” he murmured, continuing to stroke your hair as your breathing calmed. He let out a tremulous sigh and closed his eyes, leaning down to press his forehead to yours. “It’s alright,” he repeated even more quietly, sounding almost as if he were talking to himself, pressing against you for a moment before inhaling sharply and pulling away.

“Shit, you’re in pain, aren’t you?” he said, looking you over with worried eyes and immediately moving to stand. “I’ll get Shadowheart, she said she’d come by when she woke but surely she’s had enough sleep by now and–”

“Wait, Star, I… can you just stay here with me for a moment?” you asked in a small voice. Warmth spread through him at your request and he obliged immediately, lowering himself to sit at your side and gently taking your hand in his. You sat in companionable silence for a moment, studying his profile as he stared at your interlaced fingers. Up close the bags beneath his eyes were even more pronounced and you frowned, gently extricating your hand from his to touch his cheek. He leaned into your palm and placed a kiss against the inside of your wrist, eyes drifting closed as he basked in the warmth of your touch.

“Have you rested at all, Astarion?” you questioned. “You look exhausted.”

He huffed a laugh and cracked open an eye to look at your face.

“I’m not sure you want to get into comparing looks right now, darling. You’re even paler than me at the moment,” he chuckled, eyes closing once again as he leaned further into your touch, a teasing grin spread across his face. “I assure you, however you may think I look, you look ten times worse.”

“Hm, that’s not too bad I suppose,” you smirked. “Ten times worse than you is still at least three times better than the average person.”

Astartion barked out a surprised laugh and opened his eyes to look at you again, something in them softening as he saw your gentle smile.

“Whoever would’ve thought math could be so romantic,” he murmured, leaning forward and placing a soft kiss against your lips. He raised a hand to brush a stray hair off your forehead and his smile faded, brow furrowing as his gaze met yours with uncharacteristic vulnerability. “Please don’t scare me like that again, my dear,” he breathed. “I’m- I don’t-” he sighed in frustration at the mess of emotions in his chest, hardly able to remember the last time his words had failed him so completely.

“Don’t want to deal with this group of weirdos all by yourself?” you teased gently. He grinned back at you, gratitude in his eyes for not pushing him to collect his thoughts just yet.

“Precisely that,” he chuckled, the tension leaving his shoulders.

“Well I’m not going anywhere,” you said, smiling softly at him. “Also I wasn’t kidding before, you look like shit. You really should get some rest.”

“Hm,” Astarion hummed mischievously, narrowing his eyes. “I would, but you see someone went and bled all over my bedroll. Adept though I may be at washing out blood stains it’s a rather thick fabric, it will take a while to dry back out. I may need to stay with… someone… for a day or two. Or three. Maybe more,” he smirked, raising an eyebrow suggestively as you huffed out a laugh.

“You’re incorrigible,” you replied, grinning up at him and rolling your eyes. “I suppose it does seem that I’ve made rather a mess of your tent though…”

“You certainly have,” he murmured, shifting to hover over you, slowly kissing his way along your jaw.

“And it would only be fair to let you bunk with the cleanest person in camp…”

“Mmhmm…” he hummed, kissing closer and closer to your lips.

“And I’m sure Gale wouldn’t mind letting you crash with him–”

“Excuse me??” he crowed, pulling back indignantly as you burst out laughing below him. He scowled playfully and shook his head at you in feigned displeasure. “You wicked little thing,” he chuckled, leaning back down and finally pressing his lips to yours in a gentle, unhurried kiss. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Whatever it is,” you smirked, pulling him back to you for another kiss, “I'm sure I'll like it.”

#astarion #astarion ancunin #baldurs gate 3 #baldurs gate #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion x you #bg3 #bg3 astarion

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bitchyycapricorn · 1 year

Text

Sticky

MCU!Peter Parker x Reader

Masterlist

Wordcount: 2.4K

Synopsis: Peter Parker loves to play with fun gadgets he finds around the Stark tower. Especially when it comes from an alien space ship. Which is exactly how you end up completely pressed to the ceiling of Peters room without knowing when you’ll come down.

Warnings: Smut!! Oral (f receiving), P in V, language, probably disappointing Mr. Stark

AN: lightly edited

Peter bursts through his bedroom door at the speed of light. “Y/N! Y/N!” Peter shouts, his eyes scanning his room for any signs of life. You peak your head out from under the covers, a small smile forming on your tired face.

“Hey Peter,” you mumble sleepily, snuggling your head into Peter’s pillow. “You’re home from Stark Towers already?” You hum groggily.

Peter shuffles over to his bed, plopping down next to your curled-up figure. “Mr. Stark helped me design new web shooters and-and I wanted to show you them,” Peter beams. A soft smile spreads across your face as you watch Peter shuffle around inside the black bag he brought home.

“Ah, damnit.” Peter mumbles pulling out some sort of gun filled with lava pink liquid. “I brought home the wrong bag. This is the anti gravity stick gun.” Peter frowns.

Your eyes shoot open wide, the aspect of an anti gravity sticky gun intriguing you. “Did you say anti gravity? Your smile widens as you sit up fully to take a look at the gun in Peter’s hand.

“Yeah, but we can’t you know…use it.” Peter laughs as he goes to put the gun back in the bag. Your hand is quick to stop his, wrestling the gun out of his grip. “Y/N/N, no, we can’t,” Peter pleas with you. “If Mr. Stark find out he’ll have my suit!” His words mean nothing to you in this moment, you’re too busy examining the cool piece of alien tech that Peter “accidentally” brought home.

“There’s no way you ‘accidentally’ brought this home, you were totally messing around with Tony’s gadgets again weren’t you!” A smirk tugs at your lips as you continue to examine the bright pink liquid.

Peter groans, throwing himself back on the bed. “Okay! So I got sticky fingers and was messing with some of Mr. Stark’s stuff. But I really did accidentally bring it home! I had two identical bags, one with the anti-gravity gun and the other with my webshooter upgrades. Bruce just walked into the lab and I got scared and threw the gun back into the bag and without thinking took off with the wrong bag…” Peter babbles.

“Wicked,” you grin, pointing the gun at Peter. “So if I shoot you with this…”

“No no, I shot a flowerpot to the ceiling and it was still stuck up there when I left, I was playing with the gun for over an hour.” He replies sternly.

You let out a small laugh “Oh, so I’m definitely sticking your sticky ass to the ceiling.” You’re still pointing the gun at Peter when he goes to take it back from you. As you wrestle for the gun, a beam of light shoots out of it and the next thing you know you’re on Peter’s ceiling.

“Y/N!” Peter squeaks. Your whole body is pressed up into the ceiling, limbs completely frozen. Arms and legs both slightly spread out. “Um, shit what do we do?” Peter looks at the gun again as if there will be directions written on the outside explaining how to reverse the effects.

“I feel like I’m not even allowed to be mad,’ You let out a laugh, looking down at a panicking Peter. “This is actually really cool, I feel so firm.”

“Y/N, this is not the time to be messing around, we need to get you down.” Peter’s face is pale and sweaty as he examines your body being pressed against his ceiling by some weird alien magic. His eyes wander from how silly your hair looks fluffing out, down to how nice your figure looks, completely trapped and unable to move. Peter tries pushing the thought away, hating his sudden urge to crawl up on the ceiling with you and experience what its like to make you scream while you’re stuck. That’s when it hits him, “I’m coming up with you, I’ll see if I can pry you off the ceiling okay?”

You scrunch your face up at his words, not liking that he’s making you come down already. “Come on Peter, this is so cool. See if you can move my limbs into different positions first.” Peter disappears from your view for a moment before he’s hovering… below you?

“Why do you insist on making things difficult by messing around?”

“Because.” You state simply. Peter rolls his eyes, gently tugging at your arm. Your arm easily swings forward before quickly being pulled back to the ceiling. “Whoa, do that again it felt weird. I feel like my whole body is ten times more sensitive right now.”

Peter pulls your arm again, it comes forward before reattaching to the ceiling, his mind racing from your words. He can’t help but wonder if your whole body is more sensitive. “We need to get you down now.” He urges, knowing that if you’re up here any longer he won’t be able to help himself. It was always a fantasy of his to fuck you on the ceiling, or high up on a wall. He just never trusted himself enough to go through with it. But now that you were already up here, he couldn’t help but feel the urge to start fucking you senseless.

“Peter, earth to Peter Parker,” you coo, trying to get your boyfriends attention.

Peter blinks, refocusing his gaze onto yours, “sorry, sorry I was just thinking.” His face flushes red as he begins to crawl down to your legs.

“You couldn’t have been normal and gone around my body? You had to crawl over me didn’t you?” You ask, watching has Peter’s body hovers over yours on his way down to try and unstick your feet permanently. “Your dick is in my face, and it’s hard.” You mumble, a blush spreading across your face now.

“S-shit sorry!” Peter tries to move out of your face by backing up, only to find he’s made it worse by dropping his hips too low and smacking you in the face with his boner.

Your body begins to shake with laughter, “Ow, I just got a face full of sweatpants dick.”

Peter freezes, hoping down from the ceiling completely. “I don’t think I’m getting you down.” He admits, his face was a brighter red than before as he looks up at you.

You let out a small hum, looking down at your embarrassed boyfriend. “Well, you got any ideas how we can pass the time?”

“I won’t admit anything.” Peter replies, quickly adverting his gaze.

“That made absolutely no sense dork, do you have any ideas or not?”

“None that I’m willing to admit.” He continues to avoid your gaze, focusing only on the closet door.

“You should come up here and fuck me then,” you tease, eyeing his still obvious boner.

Peter’s face goes pale, looking up at you again. “Does the gun give you the ability to read minds too?”

A laugh erupts from your chest a you goto shake your head ‘no,’ only to realize you can’t. “No Peter, I can’t read minds but I can read the message your massive boner sent me while it was in my face.”

“That’s not funny, you scared me. I thought you could tell what I was thinking and that you’d start yelling at me for thinking about how good your boobs look in such a dire situation.” Peter pauses, realizing he just admitted exactly what he didn’t want you to know. “Never mind, don’t listen to me ever again.”

“You think my boobs look good?” You beam.

“Stop.” Peter warns, feeling his blush return.

“Oh my god Parker, just get up here and fuck me.” You groan. Peter hesitates for a moment before giving you a small nod and jumping up onto the ceiling. He starts at your legs, repositioning them so your feet are pressing against the ceiling while your knees are bent. Once he’s got you properly repositioned, you feel him crawling between your legs. “Peter…what are you doing?” You can feel his hands grabbing onto your pajama shorts.

“Fucking you, like you asked so kindly.” A smirk settles on Peters face as he rips your pajama shorts down the middle seam, watching as they fall off your body and to the ground.

“Peter!” You cry, looking down at your now torn shorts.

“Well I had to get them off you!” Peter defends, slowly ripping your underwear off you as well. You let out a gasp as the cool air hits your heat, feeling your whole body flush under Peters warm touch, “Tank-top is next.” He smirks, tearing open the fabric to reveal your bare chest. The cold air washes over your, making you shiver as much as the magic would let you. Peter grabs your wrists, guiding your arms so they’re pinned above your head. “Is this what you want pretty girl?” He hums against your neck. His lips slowly leaving a trail of kisses down your body.

You let out a sharp moan “Y-yes,” his lips causing you to completely forget about your torn cloths on the ground. He continues to kiss down your neck until he reaches your tits. His right hand gently creasing the swell of your breast making you let out another moan. Leaning down, Peter brought your hard nipple into his mouth. Another moan escapes your lips as you fight to press your chest into Peters face, but with no success. You’re completely stuck, unable to move. Peter smirks against your boob at the attempt, continuing to swirl his tongue around your extremely sensitive nipple. “Fuck Peter,” you groan, wanting more than anything to run your fingers through his soft brown curls. Peter switches over to your other tit, giving the other nipple some attention as well.

The room fills with your soft moans as Peter kisses his way down your body and to your hot cunt. He pulls away for a moment, pressing a soft kiss to your inner thigh before dragging his bottom lip down your thigh and back to your aching cunt. His head dips between your legs as you feel his tongue slowly slipping between your folds. The tip of his tongue makes contact with your clit, gently swirling around the sensitive bundle of nerves causing you to let out a throaty moan. Peter’s arms slide around your thighs, pulling your body closer ever so slightly as he continues to eat you out. His face buried in your soft cunt, lick and sucking on your swollen clit.

A knot begins to form in your stomach within a few seconds and your realize just how sensitive your body really feels. The feeling of Peters mouth pleasuring you makes your body a shaking mess against the ceiling. Your limbs feel like they’re on fire as pleasure courses through your whole body. Pressing your head against the ceiling as hard as you could, you feel your orgasm wash over you. A sharp cry escapes your lips, your whole body convulsing from your release.

Peter slowly comes up from your cunt, a smile plastered on his face. “I see someone enjoyed that a little too much.” He teases, placing a soft kiss to your lips. You let out a small groan in response, your whole body still pulsating. You keep your eyes on Peter as he begins to strip from his sweatpants and white T-shirt. His abs flexing as he miraculously manages to strip while still on the ceiling.

“Look at my sticky boy,” you giggle as you admire the way the light makes his abs appear to glow.

Peter grins, crawling over, well under, your body and positioning his hips between your thighs. “I’m about to make you real sticky.” You raise your eyebrow at his comment, noticing the cheeky grin on his face. “You ready?” He asks, his hand slipping between your bodies to position himself.

“Mhm,” you hum, feeling Peter slides into you slowly. The sensation of Peter thrusting up into you is completely foreign and completely surreal. Your body bounces ever so slightly up against the ceiling and you feel as though you could fall at any moment.

Yet, your body stays put, allowing for Peter’s hips to snap up into yours. His thrusts are sloppy and deep, feeling out your new position. A sigh escapes your lips as Peter leans up to kiss along your neck.

“How does this feel baby?” He whispers softly in your ear.

A shiver runs down your spine, all of your muscles contracting at the hot breath on your ear and neck. “It feels so good Peter,” you moan softly, desperately wishing you could wrap your arms around his neck. Peter gives you a warm smile, kissing your cheek as his pace speeds up. His thrusts becoming more even and deep, fucking you straight up and into the cold ceiling.

“Wanna see a trick?”

“Trick?” You laugh, watching as Peter detaches his hands from the ceiling, leaving him on just his knees. He looks up at you with a smirk, gripping onto your thighs as he continues to fuck you at an inhuman speed. His nails digging into your soft skin as he hangs upside down thrusting into you.

You close your eyes, letting out a string of moans, loving the way he feels deep inside of you. “Fuck Peter, I’m close again.” You felt like you were on fire, your whole body overly sensitive to Peter’s touch and rough thrusts.

“Do it then” Peter grunts, his cock sliding in and out of you even harder. You push your head up into the ceiling, mouth falling open as another wave of intense pleasure hits you, throwing you completely over the edge. A scream escapes your lips followed by Peters name as you come down from your high.

Peter lets out a deep moan, throwing his body back up so his hands were once again sticking to the wall. You could feel his cock twitching inside of you, thrusting deeper and deeper before pulling out quickly. Hot spurts of cum shooting out and falling back down onto Peter’s stomach and chest.

“Fucking gravity,” Peter groans.

You burst out laughing at Peter’s scrunched up face. “I told you that you were my sticky boy.” You tease. Peter grumbles something under his breath and you let out another laugh.

Your eyes widen only seconds later when you notice you suddenly feel heavier than normal. Your body detaches from the ceiling sending both you and Peter tumbling down onto his bed. “Great now I’m sticky too,” you groan.

Peter smirks, “Told you I’d get you sticky.”

+++

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quartz420 · 5 months

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Kitties

Choso x reader Synopsis: Choso brings a cat home to readers apartment despite not knowing what a cat is.... ☆Reader has no gender, y/n is used, total fluff, established relationship ☆words: 828 ☆(Note: needed some fluff for him, because my man deserve it🙏🙏)

The smell of tea enters the air as you pour in a cup for yourself, the calm atmosphere being the perfect one for a rainy Saturday evening. You take a sip from the cup while scrolling on your phone, enjoying the moment. That was until there was an unexpected knock on the door; you shift your attention towards it, asking yourself who could knock at these late hours. You strolled your way to the front door of your apartment, opening the door to reveal none other than your half-curse boyfriend. Choso stood there, his ponytails slightly drooping because of the rain but he held something small in his large hands. He gently clutched a soggy kitten, its black fur sticking to the tiny body. It looked fragile but the meow it let out was impressive for something of this size. “Hey Cho, where did you find that?”

You shifted aside so he could enter the apartment, his wet boots leaving traces in front of the house mat. He shuffled his way out of said boots while responding: “This creature was outside; I do not know why I even brought it with me.” You gave him a puzzled expression for his choice of words; did he perhaps not know what a cat was? You guided him to the couch while you to tell him to stay put, you were going to get a towel to dry off the poor kitten. After a few minutes u came back with a towel and some canned tuna, just in case it happened to be hungry.

He still looked confused, looking at the animal like it was a mythical creature. He lifted his hands and brought it closer to him to examine it, you sat next to him and glanced at his actions. “Y/n, what is this thing?” Your suspicions were confirmed, your boyfriend didn’t know what a cat was. That would’ve explained his actions towards the tiny thing. You let a let out a small laugh, taking the cat out of his hands. You gently patted it, trying to dry it off; Choso curiously stared at you. He was still confused about the whole ordeal, but more specifically at what it was. Until you finally answered his question.

“It’s a cat Cho; it’s like a small animal that most people have as pets. They tend to be a bit anti-social sometimes but they are great company if you befriend one.” He carefully listened to your words, still trying to make sense of it all. By that time, the cat was almost fully dry and was eating the tuna in an intense manner; the poor animal probably hadn’t eaten in a few days. “Do you intent to keep it?” he questioned as he still stared at the kitten. His glance was filled with curiosity and a bit of admiration towards it, which made your heart flutter a bit. “I can’t really return it outside, so yeah I’ll keep it.”

“It reminds me of you a bit y/n, it looks adorable.” You turn you head towards him, not expecting this to come out of his mouth. A bashful smile crept its way onto your face, your cheeks feeling a bit warmer than usual. “So what about a name, you should give him one.” You try to shift his focus to the cat instead of your flustered state. Choso looks at it for a few moments until he finally answered: “We should call it earthworm.”

A long silence followed. Your internal thoughts tried to make sense of this odd name, what would possess him to call it that. Until it finally clicked. “Isn’t that the movie Yuji showed you a few days ago?”

“Yes it is and liked the movies a lot.” Well that explains a lot. Knowing your boyfriends stubborn nature, you didn’t even try fighting this weird name. It was a bit heartwarming to know that his brother influenced this odd choice, it showed he cared about him a lot. You two spend the entire evening watching movies while cuddling with the newly named kitten, Earthworm. Next week Choso happened to bring another cat home, this time a totally gray one. The same process happened: You cleaned and fed the cat. This time you named it, calling it Garu. You pointed out the similarities between your boyfriend and the cartoon character, he wasn’t particularly happy with this choice but he let you be.

Your limit was hit when the following week, when Choso held another cat in his hands while standing at your door. The kitten purring while leaning into his palm. You sighed in desperation: “Cho, you can’t keep bringing cats into my apartment. I already have two and you got three at yours, don’t you think this is a little much?” The tall man pouted a bit while gently caressing the kitty. “I felt bad for it…” You chuckled while slowly shaking your head.

“Well I hope Shoko likes cats then.”

#choso x reader #choso kamo #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jjk choso #quartz writes

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bettyshoweduptotheparty · 7 months

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Midnights duality (part 2): Meet me at midnight

So, we’ve established that Midnights is the era where Taylor makes it known that there are two versions of her story, and that the prevailing narrative can’t be trusted and she’s letting a second (conflicting) narrative exist alongside it. This brings me back to the sentence that concluded the album announcement and opened the first track: Meet me at midnight.

Sounds so simple, right? But who are we meeting at midnight? It’s not the public Taylor, because we’ve known her for a while. So it must be the private one, the one that wears trainers and a T-shirt and bleeds purple glitter. Let’s meet her.

Where, other than in the mv, do we see this private Taylor? On the big screen during the Eras tour performance of Anti Hero. And what is she doing? Screaming and waving at us before she walks off in a huff. Guess no one was there to meet her…

She is also the one taking notes when performance Taylor is doing the teaching. I find it noteworthy that the public Taylor here is dressed in 1989 outfit and is holding the pointer stick in the same way she used to swing and hold the golf club in the Blank Space performance on the 1989 tour. She is also the one slut-shaming and bullying Taylor about her weight in the bathroom scene, two things we know were very prominent during the 1989 era so this ‘Anti Hero’ villain is her 1989 self, the height of her fame and perfectly crafted public persona. So this private Taylor that we are meeting is taking notes from her 1989 self. Interesting… And even more interesting that we are now getting a vault track on 1989tv called SLUT!. And I have just learned today that we are quite possibly getting a mv for this song… so would this be the place to meet our new Taylor? I think it’s a contender.

I have said in my post about the burning Lover house, that I take from the blue flames that 1989tv will move the narrative of this new Taylor forward quite a bit and as we are nearing the release (5 days to go as I’m writing this) I get that feeling more and more. Yes, I am not blind or deaf, I am very well aware that Taylor is currently doing her very best performance of NFL player’s gf, but I actually think that furthers my duality in public narrative and performance art point from part 1. Because, while I’m sure I don’t need to give you any examples of the excessive articles and media coverage of Taylor’s outings with either MH or TK, I just want to remind you of what other articles and media coverage has emerged in recent months, and this is not a story that would have made the NY Times or Cosmopolitan even a year ago.

Yep, Gaylor has entered the mainstream media. Not something that was on my 2023 bingo card, if I’m honest. Not even during the spring and summer of 2019, during Taylor’s soft launch phase, was her queerness this openly discussed in mainstream media. And not just as a general idea, some of the articles are linking her to very specific women in the past and, as if that wasn’t enough, the women in question have promptly appeared in public, either non-denying a relationship with her (looking at you DA), or showing up at her concert after a supposed years-long feud, adding fuel to the fire. And didn’t Taylor make a spectacle of looking lovingly up at Karlie in the stands at the last LA show, a show that she hyped up enough with 1989 announcement easter eggs that she could be sure everyone was watching. She wants to give this new narrative a platform. Yes, the straight girl pap walks are happening, but so is this. Pick your narrative. Especially the inclusion of Taylor in posts from official LGBTQ charities like Stonewall and Glaad seems significant to me, because they are non-profit organisations that are dedicated exclusively to preserving and telling queer people’s stories and would never risk their reputation or seriousness of their cause by participating in clout chasing or name dropping. And I know that these two things going on simultaneously seem super confusing, but I’m starting to think the confusion is part of the act. This is the tale of the two Taylors and it’s our job to work out which is which. The Stonewall Archive specifically tagged Taylor in their post about an exhibit on media coverage and public perception… they know something we don’t.

The re-emergence of pap walks alone is something I wasn’t expecting. Over the last 7 years we have known Taylor as a private person after her turbulent 1989 era. She was mostly quiet, stayed out of the headlines, no pap walks or public appearances outside of award shows and select performances. After all, reputation Taylor told us that the old Taylor died and the new version didn’t explain anything or show her face in public much. But 2023 Taylor has felt a lot like that old Taylor, right?? The pap walks, the girl squad, the high publicity romances… So, hasn’t Taylor learned her lesson from her 1989 self after all?

I think she has, but she wants the rest of the world to eat their words and see how ridiculous this is. Will this all be part of a Slut! mv? Maybe. Or it could be a way to distract the fanbase from something else that’s going on. One very notable difference in the pap walks now is how confidently herself she is when she’s photographed with her friends or going to the studio. Back in 2014 she would leave the gym looking like she was walking the runway with not a hair out of place, and now she is walking the streets of NYC looking queer as ever. (I swear she googled ‘How to look like a lesbian’ before picking that second outfit…) And I’ve seen how much it confuses the swifties. And I’m here for it 😋 Question though, if she’s going into the studio looking this gay, is the music coming out of these sessions going to be equally💅 ?

Something is brewing and 1989tv is the next thing on the horizon, so let’s look at that.

Midnight and Sunrise

Having been introduced to our new Taylor at the beginning of Midnights, she’s taken us through the main album, then the 3am bonus tracks, to the til dawn edition. With every new midnights edition we have worked our way through the night from midnight, to 3am, to dawn. So, next would be sunrise, right? And there have actually been a few mentions of sunrise and daylight in both the 1989tv marketing and other media coverage. I’ve spoken about the midnights to daylight theory before, as it’s one that many Gaylors have speculated on, but I think there has been quite a bit of movement on this recently.

Firstly, there is the yellow 1989tv vinyl that is conveniently named the ‘Sunrise Boulevard edition’. Not only does it have the word sunrise in it, it is also a direct reference to the Stonewall National Museum & Archive, which is located on this road in Fort Lauderdale, FL. And with the emergence of all the other variations of the 1989tv vinyl, it is easy to spot that they all have a sunlit beach theme (a big change from the OG 1989 city theme!) and with the recent leak of a purple version on the website of a record shop, we now have a full rainbow of 1989tv vinyls. Sunrise and rainbows… I think I have an idea where this may be going. But hang on, there is more.

Remember when I said that the Stonewall National Archive knows something we don’t? A few days ago, they posted this on their Instagram with lyrics from Taylor’s happiness, highlighting and italicising the word sunrise and pointing everybody’s nose in the caption to their address at 1300 E Sunrise Boulevard:

This feels VERY intentional. And I’ve never really looked at the happiness lyrics in that way, having taken the song to be about Scott B and her old label, but when Stonewall is using these exact lines in that context, with a strong suggestion that they have insider knowledge, it seems worth looking at them again.

In the caption, SNMAL say that they ‘celebrate the glorious sunrise of LGBTQ+ history’ with the pride flag and sunshine emoji. So, could it be that the Sunrise Blvd vinyl and accompanying rainbow variations of 1989tv are going to bring some kind of moment in history for LGBTQ people? It certainly sounds like this is about more than just Taylor. Perhaps furthering the theory that there may be a double album on the horizon with the second one being all collaborations. Stonewall also liked a comment on this post that said that something is in the air 🌈

They also included the line about flickers of light from the dress I wore at midnight. Flickers of light, as in glimpses of her queerness? The ones we are seeing now in all those articles are social posts? The mention of a dress immediately throws my mind back to the rainbow dress that Billy Porter ended up wearing at World Pride 2019, but that was almost certainly meant for Taylor. And out of all the photos of Taylor from the VMAs this year, which one did GLAAD choose to post on their Instagram in September? Yep, the one with Billy Porter. Takes me back to 2019… and something else does too, actually: The Cruel Summer live single release.

Cruel Summer was released as a single this June, 4 years after its initial release. And almost made it to No.1. It was certainly on the radio A LOT. The Lover set is also the opening act of the Eras tour, so this summer has certainly had some 2019 throwbacks. And remember how the Lover era started? With ME! Out now! on Lesbian Visibility Day, followed by the sunshine and rainbows parade that was the mv and (as we later learned from the documentary) 'Cats, unicorns and gay pride... things that make me ME.' And now, in October 2023, Taylor released a live version of Cruel Summer and used the very photo from the 2019 shoot as a cover for the single. And not only was that a 2019 photo shoot, it was the last photo she posted on her instagram in June 2019 before she was meant to wear the dress at NYC Pride. I think she captioned it something like 'calm before the storm'. And now that photo has made a comeback. If I were a betting woman...(and I've learned better than to ever make predictions when it comes to Miss Taylor Swift these days) but if I were I'd say it looks like she's taking another run at this. Meet ME at midnight...and then follow me into the daylight. ☀

And one more thing before I conclude this monstrosity of an essay, I found Taylornation's post for the midnights anniversary last week a bit mysterious:

It says 'Tonight we celebrate an album written by the one that could make us stay. After all the sleepless nights and friendship bracelets we've shared, we hope you know you're never really on your own, kid.' Sounds a bit like a pep talk (and a plea at the same time) to me. Why do the fans need reminding of the good times and be asked to stay? Where would they go and why?? And the first picture in the carousel is our girl 'home Taylor' from the Anti Hero mv, looking contemplative, maybe waiting for someone to come and finally let her out of that house. And the photo immediately after it is Taylor as we know her, smiling for photos with her fans at the movie premier. The two Taylors again...but one is in black and white and the other is in screaming colour 😉iykyk.

#taylor swift #gaylor #1989 tv #midnights album #midnights to daylight theory #stonewall and glaad know something we don't

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xianoii · 2 years

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‧ ˏˋ SCARAMOUCHE ﹐ ◜ VENOM ! ◞ ̣ ͘ ─┈ I KNOW you’re right for me; ecstasy. I keep coming back for more.

ׄ     ׅ  ★̶̲ WARNINGS 、fem!reader ╱ brat taming ╱ dom/sub dynamics ╱ sensory deprivation ╱ bondage ╱ teasing ╱ mating press ╱ heavy degradation ╱ orgasm control ╱ orgasm denial ╱ cunnilingus ╱ multiple orgasms ╱ impact play ╱ rough sex ╱ breath play ╱ throatfucking ╱ name calling ╱ modern!au ╱ bdsm themes ╱ mild sir kink ╱ spit ╱ fuck buddies → lovers ╱ creampie ╱ gets sappy @ the end ╱ minors & dc antis do not interact.

ׄ     ׅ  ★̶̲ NOTE 、GUESS WHO TF WHOOO! i missed xianoii sm y’all don’t even know . . submitted *most of my assignments & finals N SUMMER BREAK IS HEREEE WOOO!!! comeback era in order: so yk i had to write for my boo thang . . wouldn’t be a xianoii post if scara wasnt slutting us (me) out ^_^ pretty pls don’t let this flop n let me know u still love me 🥹🤲🏽 kk more info abt xianoii comeback era posted l8er! ts is kinda messy but nonetheless enjoyy my loves mwah! *reposting with working tags!

ׄ     ׅ  ★̶̲ WORD COUNT 、6.1k ( complete accident )

YOU SEARCH FOR something more in your relationship with Scaramouche. You can’t figure out why. He intrigues you to the extent of adoration, which blooms into branching feelings of varying scale. Obsession, greed, and attraction; are just a small piece of what he brings out of you. You feel a myriad of emotions when he’s added to the picture, and you can’t help but lose all composure and act on impulse. Perhaps that's why you did something as dumb as this: Stripping yourself of clothing until only the thin and laced fabric of your panties and hardly opaque fabric of your dainty tanktop covered your body, your shirt ridden up your abdomen to just beneath where your breasts fall, your clear skin blemished by the words etched above your waistline; “Miss You”. The words are sloppily written above a crooked arrow pointed downward, right where you needed him. You knew he was never willingly generous or kind with you, and with you teasing him like this, you were anticipating what was waiting for you.

You weren’t anything more than fuck-buddies— if you could even call it that. Scaramouche used you when he wanted you. It was never a dire need, a complete opposition as to how your approach to your relationship was. A part of you was aware of that, yet, it didn’t drive you away. Maybe you were just a masochist, liking every and any way he broke you down. Or, maybe, you saw something in him that was a key ingredient to the recipe of your situation. Whatever the case, anticipation ate you alive, your fingers clicking back to your messages every few seconds to see if he’d seen what you sent him. Your teeth subconsciously sunk into your bottom lip, and it wasn’t long until your mouth upturned in a smile, the “Delivered” shifting into a “Read” after what felt like an eternity. It was only a matter of his response, and the time between him getting on the road to your house.

Scaramouche isn’t as enthusiastic as you with this photo. You knew better than to tease him, and the fact that you’d even thought up something like this, let alone execute it. On one hand, he’s somewhat flattered that you miss him enough to drive yourself into desperation. It’s pitiful how far you’re willing to embarrass yourself just for his attention— he can’t help but feel pity for you. Your message gains no response from him, and with a swift look at his watch, he sighs, grabbing his things before heading out of the office door.

Now is the time to reflect on what you’ve done. You knew teasing him would come with repercussions, but you’ve never faced anything like this before. Your arms find themselves rubbing against soft fabric, bound behind your back and unable to touch anything but themselves and the softness of your bedsheets. Your eyes are blinded by the blindfold wrapped around your face, your body completely restricted from the right you have, only to be replaced with what Scaramouche is serving you; an antagonizing wait.

You can’t feel him. You don’t hear him, and God, a small part of you has your heart pounding in fear, your mind running a mile a minute in cycling thoughts of what’s in store for you. You’d pissed him off before, and you’re well aware he’s not the generous type, especially with teasing, but your desperation got the better of you, and all you can do now is wait. Clench your thighs in hopes he won’t keep you waiting any longer, your teeth gnawing on the insides of your cheek softly, your hands and arms subconsciously wriggling behind your back. And while you fight for your freedom, Scaramouche watches you in annoyance. What is your problem with him? Do you like being treated the way he treats you? What is it about him that has you grappling at straws for his attention..has you willingly waiting for him to stomp into your home angrily to bind you on your mattress with his tie? Do you think you’re something to him because you’re surely mistaken if you do. You’re nothing but one of many who’ll take the chance out of any day to please him. You don’t intrigue him in the way he does you. He doesn’t long for you in the same way. He doesn’t care for you outside of the use you provide in serving and pleasing him. And maybe he’s made a mistake in pursuing you too often, but you’re his favorite plaything.

He can’t lie and say he doesn’t like and long for you on occasion—because he does; but only when you can serve him. At this moment, he’s contemplating how you can do so. Your desires aren’t greater than his, in his opinion, but somehow, he can only sit and watch your neediness expand with the thought of giving you want weighing heavy in the back of his mind. With a very heavy sigh, Scaramouche creeps over to the bed. You missed him? You needed him? You’re getting him.

He’s back. You feel the mattress beneath you sink under his weight, “S-Scara? I…” he hushes you, a finger pressing against your lips, a light but stern ‘Shh’ following. “You’ve said enough. I don’t want to hear another word come from you.” You feel him pull further from your body the movements on the mattress indicating he’s further down. A nod from you is in response, and you swear you hear him smile, a light chuckle emitting from the man. You go a few seconds with no speaking before you feel his soft fingers brush against your calves, running up and down your lower leg. It’s not long before teasing lines are drawn up your right leg by his fingertip, his hands inching closer and closer to your inner thigh. Your breath hitches as you feel his fingers run over your clothed cunt, the soiled fabric eliciting a sigh from the man. “When I saw your picture, heh, all I could think about…”

“...about how fuckin’ pathetic you are.” as the words fall from his lips, his hand cups your cunt, middle and index fingertips pressing against your lips. The heel of his hand presses against your clit, a small gasp escaping your gaped lips, which are immediately zipped shut, feeling that intimidating gaze lays upon your face. You feel him rise higher, his head level with yours. “A pathetic bitch. Is this what you wanted? What you missed?” you feel his fingers press harder against your cunt, fighting against the fabric to feel the pulse beating. “You missed this? You had so much confidence, so tell me now.”

You’re excited despite the nervous gulps and silence that consume you. What's been a little less than two weeks feels like a lifetime of not having him, and with him here, on top of you, audibly angry, giving you just what you needed is like heaven. You're in bliss, even though you're aware that in the next few moments, you’ll be completely and utterly destroyed. You nod, hearing a scoff from the man. He's not pleased. Whether you're trying to purposefully piss him off or not, you're succeeding. “Answer me when I'm talking to you. I've taught you better than that.” you feel his fingers pinching at the fabric, adding pressure that has your hips bucking on their own. “..Yes…yes, sir.”

He chuckles and you swear that’s the first time this whole night he’s shown you a bit of softness. He doesn't praise you; instead, he keeps his mum, those fingers that teased you pushing your panties to the side, exposing your soaked cunt to the warm puffs of air that blow from his steady exhales. Your scent fills his nose, that familiarity and softness bringing him back to times before. He never went down on you for you– but him, and here, this is all for your torment.

His tongue licks over his lips, his neck craning further downward, the faintest meeting of his lips to yours leaving you jolting. “You missed me here..?” he whispers faintly. The words are spoken against your labia, your body reacting to every syllable spoken. His tongue licks a stingy stripe from your entrance to your clit, wedging between your folds to collect a sample tasting of your slick. A low moan vibrates gutturally from him, the sheer sound leaving your thighs to instinctively close around his head. “Yes, I did…I do, sir. I need you so bad right now,” your voice tries to latch on to stability, but with the way his tongue lightly treads around your clit and tenderly toys with the bud, teasing you as he gradually builds up pressure– you're stuck masking whines with your words.

He hums in response to your words, his lips wrapping around your throbbing clit, applying heavy pressure while beating his tongue softly against it, matching the pace of the beat that sings your neediness. He finds amusement in the way you're squirming, attempting so hard to keep your sounds low and your body opens and available to him. Everything you do in response is to ensure his happiness regarding you. You don't and won't get anything if you've ticked him off, and he's glad you know that, because he can do things like this to you: abusing your clit slowly but surely, sucking and quietly slurping at your folds and skillfully bringing you to your peak without laying a finger on you. Your moans are getting harder to contain, your voice breaking as you fight it off.

That knot begins binding in your tummy, and it's now that you begin fighting against your constraints, your hips lifting off the bed and further into his face. You're so close you can taste the euphoria on your tongue, and your eyes are beginning to roll beneath your blindfold. You're almost there. So close, so close– and it's gone. As fast as it came, it went, Scaramouche pulling off from you- not before sinking his teeth into your thigh, peering up at you from below. You swallow down all the things you want to say to him, knowing better than speaking to him when you knew it was too good to be true. “You're not going to cum that easily. You didn't earn it.” and you knew that. But you hoped he’d adopted some leniency toward you, but your dream was swiftly shut down by his body completely moving up, his legs over yours. “I don't think you've gotten it through your skull,”

He pauses, his left hand smacking on the side of your head before yanking the blindfold upward, letting your eyes fall upon his flat features. His right hand reaches out to your face, his index finger sliding under your chin, craning your head up to meet his intense gaze. “I'm not pleased with you at all. You reek of desperation, and your incessant pawing at my attention is irksome. Do you think that warrants an orgasm?”

Your eyes readjust to the light, your slow blinks focusing your gaze upon him. He's speaking softly to you, but you know in the layers of those words is thick malice. You've done the one thing he told you to never do. Bother him outside of your agreement. Your conversations begin and end with him. No matter how needy you are or how much you miss him, you do not contact him. You are his and not vice-versa. Your “relationship” does not step out of the boundaries of his word and your submission, and the fact you purposely and idiotically defied that…he's not letting up anytime soon. “Answer me when I'm fucking talking to you.”

“No. I’m sorry, I am! It's just..it’s been a while since we last saw each other and I–” he stops you immediately, his thumb slipping between your lips. “Do you think I care?”

He adjusts his hand to grip your chin, his fingertips pressing and smushing your cheeks. With a sigh, he roughly lets go of your face. “Let's put it in a language you can understand.”

Before you can even think, his hands have shot directly for his belt, efficiently undoing the buckle and pulling down the zipper, the waistband peeling out and teasing his solid black boxers. It's then that it registers what he wants. He slips his hand into his boxers, his other hand slightly pulling down his bottoms to allow him to easily pull out his cock; semi-hard and the tip gradually flushing red, pre-cum beginning to pool in the slit. He doesn't say a word when he places his fingers beneath your lips, and you already know. You let a glob of spit drop out of your mouth, falling onto his fingers. It's torturous as he lets his fingers run over his dick, slicking it up with your saliva with slow and deep breaths, his eyes fixated on the way your face easily tells on you. His cock is only centimeters away from your face, and from the way he's slowly and sensually stroking himself, you're fighting the urge to beg for him to end the teasing.

“Make yourself useful. Open up.” he’s repositioning his body, shoving you flush against the headboard, angling his hips to meet your tongue, sliding the tip onto your tongue, and slowly easing in. He pushes all the way in until his tip knocks at the back of your throat, your tongue slathering the underside in saliva. He sighs contently as you envelop him in the warmth of your mouth, your lips suctioning immediately to the tip. Scaramouche grabs the back of your head, angling you perfectly as he pulls his hips out, teasing you with the tip left between your lips. “Wider.” is all he says before thrusting his cock to the hilt in your mouth, crowding it with his girth. He hears your gags - hurried and frantic, attempting to adjust and accommodate for him.

It doesn't take long before Scaramouche is steadily building a pace in his thrusts, gradually going faster and deeper with each drive of his hips. His eyes bore into yours, watching as they gloss over like freshly lacquered floors, tears brimming your waterline and barely holding up - threatening to spill. The sounds of you choking on his dick is like music to his ears, and with a sigh, he's slowing down, alternating in speed for his amusement. “Bob your head. Give it a nice suck.” and you comply.

You tighten the suction of your lips around his shaft, swirling your tongue around - top to bottom, slicking him up with running globs of saliva. You quietly moan as you do so, fluttering your eyes back and forth between eye contact with him and the protruding veins peering back at you. You can tell it's been some time since his last release, the look in his eyes carnal. It's hard to not feel intimidated under his gaze, and you feel yourself cowering beneath him, slacking on your duty. Scaramouche is aware of the effect he has on you, – you wouldn't be in this situation had he not – and he sees the way you falter. In his mind, it seems as though you're dead set on pissing him off. The one thing you're good at, and you can't even finish the job?

It's in the blink of an eye that his palm is cracking against the skin of your cheek, his hand immediately slipping between your locks and gripping tightly, yanking you back. You wince— you're fucked.

“I was going easy on you…but you must like being treated like a whore.” he grits through his teeth. A mixture of annoyance, sexual frustration, and anger burns an inferno in his eyes, the grip on your hair tight and the sting of your cheek strong. “Gave you a simple fuckin’ task. Pathetic bitch can't even do that right.” you want to argue back– but you know anything you say won't change his mind. He's been plenty lenient, and whether you agree or not, he's done extending fair play. The ball’s been in his court, but now, it's stuck.

“I'm gonna fuck you up.” he grips your hair impossibly tighter, pulling your head back until it knocks against the headboard. “Gonna pull your hair like this..” he then removes his grip, his hand instead slapping against your face in small smacks. “..Bruise up this pretty face…” his eyes meet yours briefly. The two of you are on opposing sides of this predicament— you, who just missed him and was incredibly horny, and him, who just wants someone to control. His threats would've scared anyone away. Sent them scurrying with their tail between their legs. But you, you're something different. A masochistic attention whore, for starters— but you're also loving. Though he's berating you and treating you like scum beneath his shoe, you still peer up at him with those eyes, full of adoration. And so when your eyes meet, only briefly, Scaramouche withers with pity, because only you would let him treat you like this, but still look at him like that. Perhaps the feeling is mutual, but he’ll never admit it.

His thumbs slither between your lips as the rest of his fingers tangle in your hair, the digits granting him a grip on your head. His thumbs stretch your lips as wide as they could. “...and fuck your face. Stick your tongue out and take it.” you comply. He lowers your head to his hard-on, slamming you onto it. The entire shaft disappears in your mouth, and the tip kisses the back of your throat. It's not long before he’s thrusting into your mouth, his balls slapping against your chin and your tongue struggling to keep up with the rough thrusting into your mouth.

He drinks up your chokes, groaning and cursing every time your gags vibrate against the sensitive head of his cock. Your eyes water again, peering up at him with sweetness, as if to silently ask for less, but to no avail, you're ignored. Drool runs down your face and his cock, spit dribbling down to his balls and painting him messily. You wish you could move your arms, your fingers wiggling and hands moving wildly for something to grab and clutch. He's amused at your attempts. Your movement is only helping him anyway.

You're sure your throats got to be bruised, at this point. The air is hard to inhale through your nose, and you're stuck trying to breathe around the girth of his dick, wheezing, tightening your throat around him. Though it's not intentional, it sends shivers up his spine and he's much more vocal, trying to mask moans beneath tough grunts. He's slowing down, burying you at the hilt of his cock until your nose upturns on his pelvis, your lips wrapped around the base, and your tongue dancing over as much as you could. “A-ah, fuck…just like that. Fuck…”

He’s long since peeled his thumbs from the corner of your mouth, hands residing behind your head until now; his left hand running down to your neck, wrapping his grip around the shaft and squeezing, tightening you on his cock. You feel like the air is being stripped from you and you keep telling yourself ‘Breathe, just breathe’ but to no avail, the lack of air throws you into a panic. Your protests and thrashing only have him cursing in longer, drawn-out strings. In seconds he’s pulling out, his hands leaving you and rushing to his cock. He pumps himself fiercely, all of your spit and his precum driving him directly to his high. “Fuckfuck— open..your mouth-! Swallow m—” he’s cut off with his own guttural groan erupting, his cum shooting thick onto your lower face until you open your mouth, catching as much as you can. Your jaw hurts and you're sure that it’ll take a while for you to recover, but you're quick to be good for him, leaning forward and licking the sensitive tip, cleaning him up.

Scaramouche comes down from his high, his low eyes softly laying his gaze upon you. He sinks into your mattress, catching his breath and wiping away the sweat that beads at his hairline. His hand reaches to your face, thumb swiping up a rope of cum that missed your face, pressing the digit between your lips. You, eager to please and even more eager for him to let up on you, suck and swirl around the digit, your eyes never leaving him. With a sigh, “...how do you want me first?”

You've finally got him. Pounding into your cunt mercilessly, his grip on your waist and right leg. Your leg stands tall in the air, occasionally draping over his shoulder with your toes curling. Your leg pulls him into you more, his hips slapping against yours with euphoric fervor, driving you straight to the edge with no warning.

You're at your third orgasm at this point, your cunt decked down with your arousal and cum. Your clit throbs in neglect, your entire body burning and begging for attention from him– but all he seems to care about is dumping another load onto your body. His teeth are gritted and his eyebrows are furrowed. His grip is so tight on your skin that you're sure bruises have begun to form under the relentless slapping and groping of his calloused palms. Scaramouche can't get enough. The contraction of your pussy around him and the squelch it elicits every time he plunges his cock in, the way you moan his name endlessly and effortlessly, the way you attempt to grip and claw at anything even though he’s still got your arms bound behind your back– simply, the way you allow him to use you, but you still want him. Long for him. You cry his name because he makes you feel good even though you know the favor won't be returned. You let him bruise you up and slap you around like a ragdoll, and it's fine because he likes it. Everything you do is a response to and for him, and it's only now he realizes the feeling is mutual.

He wouldn't be fucking you hard like this had he not enjoyed your body. It's because you're what he's always wanted that he comes back; no matter how much you irk him and spoil his mood. And yeah, he may treat you like shit sometimes, but you never feel resentment toward him. Now, at this moment, Scaramouche knows you're right for him.

“‘M cumming!-- Oh my G—” your voice resurfaces in his mind and pulls him back, his thoughts pushed aside to tend to your approaching high. His pace slows and his thrusts go deeper, knocking at your sweet spot repeatedly until your voice dissipates and you squeal in place of words. Your body tenses and jerks before you let that knot unravel, a large and satisfying groan escaping your mouth as you orgasm. He's pulling out from you and letting you collapse for a moment. He watches and slightly admires you as you pant heavily.

Without a word, he's grabbing you by the tie around your wrists, flipping you to your back. While he's over you, his fingers fiddle with the knot, promptly untying you and tossing the tie to the pile with the rest of your clothes and his pants. “Are you leaving?” you almost sound disappointed. You are though, as you are every time your time together gets severed. He shakes his head, “Do you want me to stay?”

There's a softness in his tone that you're not familiar with. Complete with the way he's looking at you: gazing down upon your fucked out state with something akin to admiration, rather than the look of pure disgust you're used to…you're lost. Do you want him to stay? You've never been given this option. “Can you?” you don't know what's going on, or what's going to happen now that he's here for longer than expected. It's been a bit over an hour since he tied you up to have his way with you, and after then, he's usually gone to never be heard from or seen again until he needs you.

The silence is deafening. “Can I ask you a question?” he waits for your answer. You nod slowly, chewing haphazardly on the inside of your lip. “What do you think of me? …Outside of..this?” you pause. Why’s he asking you this?

“Well, I already told you I missed you, and I think you're well aware of how you make me feel,” you're nervous. You pause and giggle, readjusting your position to lay comfortably on your side, playing with your fingers. “I guess…there isn't much to express. What I really think about is the you I don't know. You when we aren't together, what goes on in your mind when we are— I just want to know you, I guess.” he expected that the least. He knew you were infatuated with him, that much was clear, but…you wanted to know him? He hadn't had anybody take a true interest in him the way you do. “I dunno. I don't want this to be weird so take what I said lightly.”

It's too late for that. “Good…I-uh–” he stops himself. It sounds like he has something to say, and you've never seen him so choked up before. “I don't know what it is, but I think I feel the same? And if I do, then what?” he doesn't know what he's saying. Why is he saying this to you? He hopes and prays you aren't making fun of him. He portrays himself to you as a boss. He takes control of you and demolishes any sense of strength you have because he's dominant. He never had to open up, and he's never felt this way about somebody to even assess how he feels. All he knows is that when you're around, the ache is subdued and he can fulfill you both in the best way he knows.

Your eyes blink back at him, you must be dreaming? There is…it can't be. You're confused too, but someone has to take the lead, and you do. You prop yourself up on your knees, level with him, and bore your eyes into his. You tear a page from his book, “Let me put it in a language you can understand.” and before he can even respond, you're latching to him, pressing your puckered lips to his in a deep kiss. This is something you’ve never shared before– ever. He doesn't kiss you, he usually doesn't pay you any mind aside from you servicing him, but he doesn't stop you. Evidently, he's shocked but not stopping, allowing the kiss to deepen. His hands find yours, his traveling down to your wrists. He lifts your arms in the air, holding them until pushing you back on the bed, pinning your arms above you. You moan into the kiss as he bites down on your bottom lip, your back arching before your entire body grinds upward to him.

It gets incredibly heated almost instantly, and it's not long before your bodies are grinding against each other, re-igniting the flame that roared between you not too long before. “S-Scara..?” you manage to whimper out, his lips leaving yours and trailing down your body, a steady road of kisses drawn to the valley of your breasts, where his tongue takes action and licks around, teasing when he gets to your areola only to proceed with kissing around. It's only when his lips wrap around the hardened bud of your right breast does he hum in response, his indigo eyes that are usually filled with malice shining in lust. You choke out a moan, shivering as the new feel of his lips around your nipple engulfs you. “One more…I need you–!”

Your whispers of ‘please, please, one more, please’ don't fall on deaf ears, a smirk etching over his face as he buries himself in your tits, suckling on and toying with your nipples. He plans on giving you what you want– because trust, he wants it just as much as you do –but he wants to take his time with you. He wants to ravage you in a way he hasn't done before: slowly. With precision and the perfect amount of carnage that it drives you up the wall and wanting more. He wants to give you what he knew deep down all along that you deserved. Not someone to fulfill a fantasy of being useful, but for someone to take care of you. He meant what he said when he told you you were pathetic. But he is too. He wouldn't be basically nursing on your tits had he not been in the same boat as you.

He lets go of your arms, allowing his hands to run up and down the side of your body as he continues to trail his kisses down your body. You shudder when he reaches your thighs, and though he’s been down there too many times to count, you’re feeling brand new. You're not used to it in this scenario, and it's got your thighs pressing together in embarrassment. Peering back up at you, Scaramouche peels your thighs apart, “Nuh-uh. Keep ‘em nice and open. Just like this.”

You nod and keep your legs wide for him, watching intently as he sucks on the supple skin, marking you in deep shades of purple and red, prettily contrasting against your skin. And though they lay beside the marks his hands left on you earlier, he ignores them. View this as him making up for what he's done or him genuinely cherishing you– you don't mind, because you have him. “Scara..” God, call him that again. He looks up at you, laying his head on the plush of his thigh. Had you not known how fierce and ruthless he was, you'd gush and swear up and down he was innocent. “Please, now? I'm so ready for you…” your voice trails as you reach to his head, your left hand playing with the hairs that fall down over his eyes. Usually, begging like the way you are now doesn't get you anything— but this is no longer Scaramouche you're dealing with. This is the him you’ve been longing to know.

With no further conversation, he picks himself up and pushes your legs up to plant your feet on the mattress. He’s climbing on top of you, legs between yours as he pumps his cock, eyes on you as fuel for his libido, spit dripping from his lips to his incoming hard-on. Eyes locked on you, the male positions himself and lines up with your entrance, steadily pushing himself in. You're still dripping from your time earlier, your cunt inviting as he slides in, immediately bottoming out. And perhaps it's the change in attitude, but it feels so different. Your voices are unstoppable, slipping past in airy moans, your eyes fluttering before fixating on each other. He lets himself sit inside you for a moment, relishing the feel of you around him. And it's not like he hasn't been balls deep in you before, but it's only now that he's truly feeling you. Truly being in you. You're heavenly, and that's an indisputable fact.

He looks at you for the okay, to which you nod in response. He takes a different approach in the way he takes you, his right hand pressing on your stomach while the left hikes up your left leg on his shoulder, pulling out only to slam back in. This begins at a slow but deep pace, his hips colliding with yours with wet slaps of skin as a witness. Your moans are beautiful, and he swears they're more real–more authentic, somehow– in the way you sing them out. They sound more sensual, and possibly it’s the way he's fucking you. Taking his time with each thrust, angling his hips to hit the spot he knows gets your toes curling and eyes rolling. With your palms rubbing over your tits, your fingers pinching and rolling your sensitive nipples, you're in euphoria.

And though Scaramouche is taking a new approach with you— this isn't enough. In seconds, he's hiking up both of your legs, pushing them as far as they could go back, your ankles just hardly draping over his shoulders in this new position. He's wasting no time in using your legs as leverage, starting his thrusts again; this time with more fervor. His speed matches the pit of fire blazing in his stomach, his hips going back to what he knows best: fast, rough, and deep. He wants to take care of you, to ravish you sweetly and slowly, and he knows it’d be a preference of yours too, but he sees no protest in this, either. This entire time your eyes have not left each other once, drinking in the sight of one another like it's the first time you’ve seen each other.

Your hands are all over the place, flipping from gripping the sheets to groping your breasts, to reaching out for him, to toying with your clit. You're so used to him having you bound or holding you down that you're completely lost on what to do with yourself. The fact that your moans are even intelligible is crazy to you– you're always gagged, muffled, or told to shut the hell up. You feel so foreign but it doesn't bother you completely, because you've won. It might not have started out this way, and it may have taken 3 orgasms and a brutal facefuck, but you've gotten him to soften up and be real with you. You honestly don't know how, but you're overjoyed because it's not one-sided. You both feel something, and perhaps this can blossom into something more. You’ll just have to see.

You're both floating beyond cloud nine, your minds whirling in a repeated cycle of pleasure and each other. “Scara–! Fuck, I'm close!” your voice is shrill, hardly spoken in a coherent tone. He nods, pressing your legs into you harder before using his body as an anchor to hold them down. His hands wrap around your throat instead, gripping the shaft and applying pressure - the way he knows you like it. Your eyes widen and your mouth gapes open, the tightness of your abdomen feeling as though it's heightening your pleasure. He builds a glob of spit before shooting it in your mouth, watching as it mixes on your tongue before you swallow thickly. “Come on, pretty. Give it to me.”

Your hands scratch at his forearms, attempting to grab on and stabilize your jolting body. Your body doesn't agree, your hips bucking uncontrollably, your mind and body on separate wavelengths. Your mind is clouded, focused on the way Scaramouche is so attentive to your tells; flicking your clit every now and then, spitting down on your cunt, and applying extra pressure to your throat. You're so focused on the way his eyebrows furrow in concentration, his mouth switching between lowly spoken words and lip bites - ones so deep they could've drawn blood. You have a one-track mind, and your body is on several different tracks, mushing the asphyxiation and pressure on your neck with the surging pleasure that pulses from your pussy.

“Right there! Right there, harder, Scara– ahn- fuck!” you're on the tip of falling into your high. Scaramouche is quick to comply, slamming into your pussy hard. His grunts are guttural and more frequent, in sync with your moans as he hits you just right and you squeeze around him tight. “Yes! Pleaseplease – shit!” you're coming undone in no time. A wave of cum spills from your cunt, slipping past as Scaramouche approaches his high not too far after. “Cum in me…please. I wan- I want it ah– it all..!” having hardly come down from your high, you're crumbling apart from pleasure, but you're not too far gone to vocalize your pleasure.

“I got you— gonna give it all to you, princess.” that was it. You both find yourselves shaking, silently moaning as your highs creep up on you for the nth time, streams of cum meeting in the middle and mixing.

He slumps on top of you, your bodies giving out and falling limp. A few minutes of silence go by, and Scaramouche remembers what brought this on in the first place. You two had a lot to assess and a lot to talk about– but you needed a start. “Kunikuzushi.” he says it blankly and lowly. You look down at him, blinking in confusion. “Huh?”

“...Kunikuzushi. That's my name— er- it was my name.” he says, his fingers drawing inconsistent shapes on your skin. “Thought I should tell you…you can call me that if you want.”

With a giggle, you brush your fingers through his thin locks, a smile prominent on your sweaty face. “Yes, sir.”

#genshin impact smut #genshin smut #genshin x reader #genshin x you #genshin x you smut #genshin fanfic #genshin imagines #scaramouche x you smut #scaramouche smut #scaramouche x you #scaramouche x reader #scaramouche x reader smut #scaramouche x y/n #kunikuzushi smut #kunikuzushi x reader #kunikuzushi x you #〈 o͟n͟ ͟your ✿̶̲ ͟ queueˏ ⠀ .ᐟ 〉

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sinofthesloth · 10 months

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𝔹𝕝𝕠𝕨𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕊𝕞𝕠𝕜𝕖

“This is was just a game to me, and you were just the gasoline.”

Cw: Angst. (I’m bad at gauging how heavy it is so just read with that in mind.)

Synopsis: You thought they liked you back. How stupid can you truly be?

(っ◔◡◔)っ ♥ 𝙁𝙩. 𝘼𝙯𝙪𝙡, 𝙍𝙤𝙤𝙠, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙄𝙙𝙞𝙖 ♥

.*•.¸♡ ä̤z̤̈ṳ̈l̤̈ ä̤s̤̈ḧ̤ë̤n̤̈g̤̈r̤̈ö̤ẗ̤ẗ̤ö̤ ♡¸.•*.

“Are you really that blind?”

Azul had a future plan and refused to let anything get in the way of that. You just weren’t something he saw himself needing

You had confessed to him in the privacy of the VIP room. Floyd and Jade were thankfully keeping their nose out of Azul’s business for once. The confession had you picking at your shirt as you stared into his grey eyes.

The first hint that he didn’t share the feelings should have been the fact he wasn’t paying attention to what you were saying. He’d ask you to repeat yourself multiple times as he searched for something in his desk.

The next should have been sighs he kept pushing out of his throat. You told yourself they were from his inability to find what he was looking for.

The third and final nail in the coffin was when he finally looked into your eyes. They held boredom. He was bored while you were confessing your feelings.

Maybe he was just having a bad day?

“Are you really that blind? I am busy and you keep talking. And what makes you think I’d like someone like you? You bring nothing to the table. And you clearly can’t read a room. Why would I want anything to do with you?”

Maybe Ace and Deuce shouldn’t have been the two you asked for romantic advice.

.*•.¸♡ r̤̈ö̤ö̤k̤̈ ḧ̤ṳ̈n̤̈ẗ̤ ♡¸.•*.

“Mon ami means my friend, and you, mon démon bruyant are nothing more.”

Rook found beauty in everything, but that doesn’t mean he loved them.

He called you french names of endearment. You knew that. He called everyone a name of endearment. You just didn’t know what word meant.

French is called the language of love because how intricate and delicate it can sound. Every word sounds like a lullaby if spoken soft enough.

He’d call you “démon bruyant”, a name you had no way of knowing the meaning of. Well, you do now. Loud fiend. Not friend. Fiend.

He saw you as nothing more than a loud extra. Someone who didn’t fall into the background only because they were louder than everyone around them.

You had planned to ask Vil if he had any idea of a good way to confess, but Rook beat you to it.

He stopped you before you made your way to the Pomefiore housewarden. His hand laid on your chest to physically stop you. The same hand traveled up to your chin before you locked eyes. He seemed to be glaring down at you as your face heated.

“Mon ami means my friend, and you, mon démon bruyant are nothing more. So I suggest you remember your place fiend. Don’t think about wasting Roi de Poison time.”

He pulled his hand away and fixed your hair before smiling and walking away.

French is such a heart breaking language.

.*•.¸♡ ï̤d̤̈ï̤ä̤ s̤̈ḧ̤r̤̈ö̤ṳ̈d̤̈ ♡¸.•*.

“Dating them would be like grinding the first levels of a game when trying to get ready for its final boss. Pointless and a waste of time.”

Falling for the schools biggest gaming nerd wasn’t as hard, His brother talked none stop about him and how amazing he was once you looked past his anti-social behaviors.

You learned about his favorite shows and games. Ortho even talked Idia into meeting you in person. You thought were must have been a connection.

He invited you to his dorm room and the two of you would watch shows and complain about their endings, or you’d watch him game. You once asked if you could try a level, and he helped make an entire account for you to use.

Both you and Ortho explained that you don’t have any way of playing it outside of coming to his dorm to play and he bought you a complete computer set up as well as a laptop. Just so the two of you could enjoy a game that you just learned about.

So yeah, you fell, and you fell far. Hitting the floor pretty hard.

You overheard Ortho talking to Idia about how you had asked him if Idia liked you, or if there was a good way of asking Idia out. He blew up due to the information. Ranting about how he would never fall in love with someone like you. How he was only your friend because Ortho was the one to invite you over. He refused to let his little brother lose a friend because of him.

“Ortho, you don’t understand. Dating them would be like grinding the first levels of a game when trying to get ready for its final boss. Pointless and a waste of time.”

You continued to visit to boys. Acting any different would make Ortho worry, and you don’t think you can handle anymore of Idia faux concern.

#angst #twst #twst wonderland #Rook hunt #azul ashengrotto #idia shroud #x reader #idia x reader #Rook x reader #Azul x reader #azul twisted wonderland #rook twisted wonderland #idia twisted wonderland #idia angst #rook angst #azul angst

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simcardiac-arrested · 1 year

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BOO!!!!! sillyguy jumpscare

“looks like a raver ancient built him” - my friend

“i am SUCH a fan of how you make all of your fanocs annoying himbos with unnecessary swag” - my other friend

“he’s fresh sans” - like, two people

so — he’s finally here!!! the Basketball!!!! be warned INSANE and MINDBLOWING loredrop below‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️ as well as some general trivia about NWB + some more silly doodles

The Ancients, dissatisfied with the very prominent lack of results the Iterator project was bringing, began having doubts. Perhaps they had gone about this the wrong way? After all, the jellyfish that doesn’t try is the one that doesn’t get caught in the net. It seemed they had made their design of the Iterators inherently flawed — they tried too hard to solve the Problem, over and over and over again.

It was time for something new. An alternative.

And so, the idea for the Anti-Iterator project was brought into the world — a whole generation of Iterators that didn’t try. Some called it redundant, some pointless. But it convinced plenty, certainly enough to make that idea a reality, and the plan came into fruition.

No Way Back was the first created; his name was given to him to signify a turning point, a new era of Iterators. One that would bring with it change and, hopefully, finally, a solution.

so anyway NWB did absolutely nothing except talk excessively about the ancients’ fashion and sometimes ask them for their drip clothes for his collection and also make cringefail music. the project was discontinued immediately

NOW!!! TOP 10 GAMER TRIVIA:

- makes the shittiest sounding music possible, sincerely believes it’s peak art. if you don’t think the same way he’ll say You dont get it. You just dont

- fan of fashion, art & history, but in a normal way (unlike pebbles). really wishes he could have a whole wardrobe of clothes like his creators, but they’re all gone now </3 and even back then when they were all still alive they. did not like giving him stuff (they did not like him)

- one of them did give him the nikeys though

- most of his creators deemed him useless and didn’t particularly care for him. however, some of them (usually the kids) liked talking with NWB, and he enjoyed interacting with them too. he kind of misses the ancients even if they were asses

- is an enigma to his local group: he barely sends messages, and when he does it’s wildly off topic, and literally NEVER about work related stuff. occasionally he’ll drop his “bangers” in the groupchat and ask for opinions. unfortunately most of the iterators ignore him because they find him annoying (and useless as well. very ancientcore of them)

- kind of incomprehensible. he just says things

- doesn’t really have a god complex so he’s generally friendly, open-minded and easy going, but if you’re mean to him he’ll go Wow. Not cool, man. and he’ll probably give you a lecture like a 90s PSA

- calls himself a DJ. doesn’t even have a proper DJ name. probably doesn’t even know what a club is

- fan of nature, enjoyer of life. has no friends and no purpose but doesn’t let it get to him. at least he can make the equivalent of cbat 2 and force every iterator in the world to listen to it

- he’s stupid but he’s also really smart because. supercomputer. however he chooses to not use his brain and instead be silly. he thinks it’s funnier that way

- sometimes sends his music to other iterators besides his local group’s. they also ignore him

- you really can’t tell when he’s being ironic or not, and whether he’s really THAT dumb or if he’s just trolling. one thing for sure — he loves to mess with the stuck-up iterators from his local group if they decide to bother him

- if the ancients had any equivalent of the 80s, he would’ve been a very very big fan of it

- loves animals too. would call slugcat “little dude”

leave your thoughts in the COMMENTS below!!! remember to LIKE and SUBSCRIBE and listen to DJNWB on SPOTIFY (suddenly becomes normal) if you have any questions feel free to ask and i will answer. i love this guy he’s my everything

#myart #rain world #rain world oc #iterator oc #he’s like if a guy was a guy. and then was a guy again #this iterator is BALLIN he got REAL ASS JORDANS #he will tell you about the joys of life but only if you let him be incomprehensible and cryptic first #and call you Bro at the end of every sentence #btw i absolutely love adding tumblr posts to my refs it’s so fucking funny to me #oc: no way back

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ariscats · 11 days

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Jameson Hawthorne analyze, part 3

The day everyone (including me) thought wouldn’t happen came into life, the day i update my series (that i started months ago) abt analyzing tig characters. Everyone pls give a round of applause to the amazing @x-liv25-jamieswife that remembered me about this and helped me a lot writing this, even writing some of the pharagraphs.

Psychology

“I should not be left to my own devices

They come with prices and vices

I end up in crisis (tale as old as time)

I wake up screaming from dreaming

One day I'll watch as you're leaving

'Cause you got tired of my scheming

(For the last time)” -Anti Hero, T.S.

We are introduced to Jameson when he's drunk and careless. We see him jump off a two-story balcony and act like his grandfather's death “doesn't matter”. And that's mainly what we get from him throughout the first book, a boy that doesn’t care for anything, not even for himself. We get a little more explanation for why he acts like this in the second book of the series, The Hawthorne Legacy, where we find out that his actions and carelessness are a coping mechanism for him. “If you let this be a game, it doesn’t have to hurt” (THL, page 113). Jameson taught himself not to care from a very young age. After all, you can’t get hurt if you don’t let yourself care for anything, and, for a boy raised in the shadow of 3 “more extraordinary” brothers according to his grandfather, it was important for him to learn how to ignore his grandfather's words and actions (and other people’s comments too). Because people cared less for him than for his brothers, he began to move through life without looking where he stepped, without giving a second thought about most things, only letting in a select group of people, people who were with him since he was born (his brother, Emily ☠️ ), but even then he couldn't fully open up.

To avoid his feelings, he not only takes unnecessary risks that put his life in danger, but he also drinks. Drinking his emotions away allows him to focus on things other than himself. He wants to focus on anything other than himself because of his self-hatred which we will come back to later. People drink to take away the pain which is what Jameson desperately wants to do. Another one of his coping mechanisms is to think of everything as a game. By looking at everything as if it’s a game, he can easily ignore his feelings. For example, when Tobias died, and he didn’t want to think about his death and the impact he had in his life, he began to think solely about the game Tobias had left (it’s important to note that Jameson has a laser focus, which means that when he’s focused in the game, he has the opportunity to think about nothing else, which also contributes to his copying mechanism. In the books, most of the few times where Jameson is actually happy, it’s because he’s focused on a game or riddle, because it’s one of the few times he doesn't think about all the other things happening in his life.) Doing this distracts him from his problems (grief, self-hatred, insecurities). Jameson’s main priority has always been to think of anything but his emotions, and he does everything in his power in order to do so.

When his mother got pregnant, she wasn’t thinking about having a baby. For Skye Hawthorne, being pregnant meant her fathers attention and something to love her the way she wasn’t as a child. She got pregnant with a professional gambler that never cared to show up or be present at all in his life, and, when the pregnancy and the baby stage were over, so were her fathers attention, and, then, she moved on. She left him as she had left his two older brothers. She only appeared from time to time, never staying for long. Because of that, Jameson started to believe that people would naturally leave him, and that he wasn’t worth people’s attention. He thought that him being himself and being vulnerable around people would lead to them leaving him.

This brings us to his self-hatred. With his mother constantly showing up and then leaving throughout his childhood and his grandfather telling him he’s ordinary compared to his brothers, he started to hate himself. If his own family couldn’t love him and accept him, then who could? His self-hatred and his abandonment issues are what keeps him from opening up to others. Because he hates himself, he thinks that others will too if they truly get to know him which is what keeps him from being vulnerable with others. If he keeps himself from opening up to others and letting them in, they won’t learn to hate him like he hates himself and leave him. Being vulnerable also means acknowledging his own feelings which is clearly something he tries to avoid at all costs.

#the inheritance games #jameson hawthorne #the brothers hawthorne #the final gambit #avery grambs #averyjameson #the hawthorne legacy #grayson hawthorne #nash hawthorne #avery kylie grambs

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stray-kaz · 1 year

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A Murder of Crows : a Kaz Brekker x f!reader FF mini : Part One

Summary: Modern au in which Kaz Brekker and his Crows are in the rescue business. They run an underground anti-trafficking mob. The only thing Kaz hates more than liars are powerful people who take advantage of others and the Diamondbacks are the worst of the lot.

A/N: I sincerely hope I have the impetus to keep this going. Thank you to everybody who showed interest.

Warnings: Evidence of abuse, fear of men. (Kaz thinks you are only falling for him because he saved you. Kaz is a very smart idiot).

He was covered in blood the first time you saw him, a grim reaper, dark clothed and limping. But he was far from lame.

"Demjin" you gasped.

He grinned then, a white slash in a bloody mask.

"If you like."

He extended a gloved hand towards you and you took it gingerly, rising from the dirty floor in a cloud of chiffon and expensive perfume. He glanced at your clothes with distaste, a wrathful sneer curling at his mouth. You glanced down, ashamed, and tried to cover the tattooed snake that writhed down your forearm, white diamonds patterning its back. But he shook his head, gripped your chin between gloved finger and thumb and lifted your gaze to his bitter one.

“This is not your fault” he said stonily. “Life bit you. Now you get to bite back.”

He let you go and limped through the exit, expecting you to follow and not looking back to check.

Light blinded you the second you stepped outside of the dark compound you’d been existing in for months. You kept your eyes fixed hard on the back and shoulders of the man who had let you out. Curious how, after everything you had suffered at the hands of men, you were capable of trusting this one. He was walking arrogance, pure as coal, but you believed he might just hate the men who took you and used you as much as you did.

“Your name?” you asked, reaching for his sleeve.

Your fingers had barely brushed it when he turned to look down at you with eyes like ice, the same moment someone else called to him and his head snapped away, his name ringing in your ears.

“Kaz!”

You looked up to see a tall, lanky man bounding towards you, a gleaming gun strapped to each hip, barely hidden beneath the folds of his coat. Instinct bolted and you ducked behind Kaz, hiding in his shadow. He glanced behind him, irritation melting into something else, something strange and cloying, when he glimpsed your wide eyes and the ring of dark finger bruises painted around your throat. He hadn’t been able to see them in the dark building.

He held up a hand to stop the young man in his tracks; warm brown eyes tried to find you around the wall that was Kaz Brekker, but Kaz shifted his stance on his bad leg every time he moved, so eventually he gave up and stood back, hands spread wide.

“Jesper” Kaz said quietly. “Bring me Nina and Inej.”

“But, can’t I even say -”

“No” Kaz interrupted. “You can’t. Bring me Nina and Inej.”

Jesper sighed and loped off, broad shoulders bunching under the fabric of his coat.

“Thank you” you mumbled.

He didn’t say you’re welcome, nothing like that.

“Jesper is good” Kaz told you instead. “One day you’ll see it. He is everything I’m not.”

That was your first warning.

You were driven to a place they fondly called the Slat, but you were not expecting a well kept, well lit apartment building, three levels high and packed to the roof with small luxurious one and two bedroom apartments. The two young women Kaz had sent Jesper to find for you, Nina and Inej, hustled you inside and into the waiting elevator, leaving Kaz and Jesper to find their own way up.

Inej was Suli, dark eyed and beautiful, still carrying the ghosts of a similar past to your own; you could see it in her eyes and in her sad smile when she looked at you. Nina had the wide hipped, strong look of the working class Kaelish, but turned out to be Ravkan, a top of her class heartrender and gorgeous to boot.

She held your hand in hers as she led you back out of the elevator on the second storey, producing a delicate key from inside her sleeve and unlocking the door to usher you inside, handing you the key as soon as you had stepped across the threshold.

“This is yours” Inej said, gesturing at the room. “One bedroom, one bathroom, and a small kitchen. You now hold the only key.”

You stared at her and Nina, surprised. You turned the key over and over between your fingers.

“The only key?” you asked softly. “Truthfully?”

Inej nodded.

“Truthfully.”

“What about Kaz? He owns this, doesn’t he?”

Inej glanced at Nina and you followed the look, waiting.

“Kaz will leave you alone, but if there’s an emergency, he doesn’t need keys” Nina said diplomatically. “Now, sugar, there are fresh clothes in the wardrobe. I’m sure something will fit, but if not, let Kaz know and he’ll fix it. He might look and sound like a demjin, but you can trust him. He’s wicked for all the right reasons.”

She squeezed your hand and Inej gave you another fleeting smile before they turned and left through the still open door. You closed it slowly behind them, locked it, then turned to face your room. Yours.

You sank down onto the fluffy carpet and closed your eyes, thanking the Saints for the demjin who had saved your life, right as the first tear fell.

Tagging: @b3kk3r-by-br3kk3r

#kaz brekker #kaz brekker x reader #kaz brekker x female reader #liss writes #shadow and bone fic #soc fic #six of crows #a murder of crows

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where-theres-smoak-2 · 1 year

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Ok I am in rant mode again, sorry, this blog just happens to be a place where I dump all my thoughts negative and positive both, unfortunately for all who follow me. But I have seen some bad and incorrect takes from anti darkling/darklinas. So here’s just a few things I want to say.

Firstly LB has never stated that she based the darkling on her ab*sive ex. This is misinformation that was spread by antis. The only thing she has ever said about an ab*sive relationship was that she wrote the first book, Shadow and Bone, at a dark time in her life right after she had got out of a bad relationship. She has said in the past that the darkling was inspired by every bad boy she’s had a crush on in fiction including david bowie’s the goblin king.

So it seems from these comments like the character was supposed to emulate those types of characters that woman find attractive, the ones you would fall for.

I’ve also seen the argument that LB clearly wrote the darkling as a villain, well LB might disagree with you there as she herself has said on multiple occasions that she doesn’t write villains:

LB says that the darkling believes he is doing the right thing and that ‘you can make a case for most of the choices he makes, even the despicable ones.’ So if LB says that she doesn’t write villains and that you can make a case for his actions you can’t really blame darkling fans for doing the same.

The truth is LB promoted the heck out of both the darkling and darklina (or as it was known back then Darlina and Alarkling) when she was writing the og trilogy, even admitting to ‘fanning the flames’ when talking about people shipping m*lina and darklina and was clearly encouraging the shipping of both ships:

She also put out teases for the darkling and darklina:

And promoted darklina fan edits even using the ship tags:

It was only post the release of book three that she changed her tune, likely because of all the backlash she got about the ending of the books. So no LB wasn’t always against fans shipping darklina or liking the darkling. All of this information is easily found with a simple google search, I wasn’t even in the fandom back then being a show watcher first and yet I was still able to learn all of this with minimal difficulty.

Which brings me to the whole darklina being an allegory for a older man manipulating a younger girl and how the darklina fans ‘missed this’. Well if they did miss it then it was for a very good reason, but the truth is darklina’s didn’t miss it, we just didn’t think it made sense within the narrative, the darklina fandom have talked about it, myself included, in fact I’ve already posted a whole pretty much essay on the topic. But let me explain why some people may have ‘missed it’ and why it doesn’t work in the story or with darklina as the allegory. The first is because LB chose to use an immortal/immortal couple for this allegory. The thing with immortality in fiction, especially as love interests, is it makes age pretty much meaningless. The whole point of immortals is that they are ageless. Immortal ships have always been accepted within fiction and this whole age gap issue has never come up before. Nobody was going omg but the age gap yuck with Bella and Edward when twilight came out, or when Magnus and Alec got together in Shadowhunters or with any of the ships in Vampire Diaries. Yet now anti’s are trying to use the argument that the darkling is 100s of years older than Alina and that’s creepy all of a sudden. Sorry but not in my book, an immortal is always going to be significantly older than anyone else what’s the alternative they spend eternity alone, never knowing love? At least with darklina they are both immortal. Another reason why it doesn’t work is because of how the darkling is described in the book, he is said to not look much older than Alina, so in the books he looks like a teenager. So of course people weren’t going to pick up on the older guy/younger girl allegory because the darkling isn’t presented in the books as an older guy. He’s described the same way every other immortal being in every YA book at that time was. It’s also worth noting that I am not sure if LB ever actually said that darklina were supposed to represent a older guy with a younger girl or whether that was something the fandom came up with. I’m not saying she didn’t just that I myself have never seen a direct quote from her that I recall and I wasn’t able to find one. I think the first time I heard of it was when someone sent me an ask about the topic. I know that she has said it was meant to serve as a warning of attractive and charismatic men being able to manipulate young girls but I don’t know that she herself has ever talked about an age gap or specifically mentioned older men?

Another thing that I have been seeing alot of are comments like darkling/darklina fans only like him because he is hot. What bothers me about this is firstly even if that were true and the only reason people liked him was because he is hot, so what? There’s nothing wrong with that, its fiction and fiction is used to escape for a bit, its for enjoyment and entertainment, so if that enjoyment and entertainment comes in the form of staring at the hot guy irregardless of whether they are the hero or villain, let them be. Why are you criticising the way someone enjoys fiction? Sometimes a gal just wants to look at the hot guy. Secondly its just a really irrelevant argument because the darkling is not the only hot, charismatic character in the books or show. M*l is also described as being attractive and charismatic with no shortage of friends and girls, Nikolai is another character that fits that description, so by this argument the only reason M*l fans like him is because he is hot, and the only reason Nikolai fans like him is because he is hot. Thirdly its just plainly not true, whilst I am sure there may be some fans who only like him because he is hot, again nothing wrong with that, most fans like him for a variety of different reasons because he is an interesting and complicated character. As someone who spends a fair bit of time in the darkling/darklina tags the most common reason I have seen for fans liking him is because of his dedication to the grisha, his willingness to fight for the grisha something that he has dedicated 100′s of years of his life too. Personally I like Aleksander/the darkling because he has a sympathetic backstory, because he is fighting for the grisha and when seeing that they had no place to go where they could be free from fear he vowed to make them a safe place, a sanctuary, of course I am going to root for that goal too. I like him because he is complicated and complex and despite being an immortal being who has become deeply effected by past traumas there is still something beautifully human about him, particularly in the show. I also like the connection he has with Alina, the whole yin/yang of it and them being each others balance. I love the complexity and angst of them having this deep connection and pull to each other but also having this anger and sense of betrayal, how they have to try and navigate around having different points of view and seeing the world in a different ways, it makes for a very compelling story and their chemistry in the show is electric. The fact that he is hot is merely a bonus, but even if he wasn’t a conventionally attractive person I would still like his character because of those complexities, because of that connection he has with Alina. But one thing this rant has done is make me curious as to what my other fellow darkling/darklina fans like about the darkling? What drew you to the character? Anyway that’s enough ranting for one day, again my apologies, I am going to go and rewatch season 1 of shadow and bone in preparation for season 2′s release tomorrow...sheepishly shuffles off my soapbox, waving awkwardly.

#darklina #the darkling #anti leigh bardugo

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softlyapocalytpic · 10 months

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I feel like I remember a post going around a while ago about the inherent tragedy of Fallout 4 and the anti-climax that is Finding Shaun and- I just can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t.

(Going under a cut because this post got away from me LMAO)

It’s a tragedy. Your son is a cold horrific monster of a man who looks at people as experiments over being people. He’s egotistical to the point of thinking of himself as somehow larger than life- not quite godly, but something more adjacent to that- because of his control over life. *Because of how they groomed him to be. He was never allowed to be a “normal” kid. The Shaun we meet is doomed, hopeless, and it’s… heartbreaking. That’s your son and.

And he’s dead. He dies no matter what faction you choose. There’s no chance for true reconciliation.

(*There’s something to say about the parallels between Shaun and Maxson as characters that I’ve talked about to others in the past but still sticks with me. Not the post for it necessarily, but I wanted to mention it.)

For me personally, the ending of Fallout 4 wasn’t victorious, it was hollow. Now, part of that is definitely influenced by what I was going through at the time, but it has stuck with me how the only lights of hope I felt were… well it was Deacon. He made it less empty. Made it feel like it meant something good.

I didn’t like pushing the button though. I thought about all the shit that could’ve taken from Institute and used for the wasteland for something good. Thought about Shaun. Thought about how I couldn’t truly say goodbye to him. Felt like I was playing out the motions, and that fucking slideshow did nothing to help the hollowness.

It’s not victorious. But then we keep going anyway. There is still work to be done. And there’s companions to keep you company, to make the world a little brighter.

And Jesus Christ I love that fucking game. I love the sandbox and I love the way that when it hits? It fucking hits.

And guess what! Fallout 3? Fallout 76? Also fucking tragedies.

Sure, Broken Steel brings the LW back from the dead, but Lone died even if Lone isn’t “dead”. The slideshow still plays. You wake up and suddenly aren’t dead, but you should be. You should be. You, a nineteen year old kid were tasked with being a martyr. Sarah is pissed off when you ask her to do it. It should be you in the eyes of the narrative. You should be the one bearing the weight of martyrdom. Follow in your Father’s footsteps.

Fallout 76? I… your nuking the Appalachia repeatedly. Everything is gone by 2277. The bright future meant to rejuvenate the Wasteland ends up destroying it. Idfk what else there is to say on that front.

And these are just… the main Bethesda titles. 1, 2, and NV are arguably in the same boat but there’s a bit more in the sense that… well for those ones it’s much more about the “you’ve won, but at what cost?”. In the original Fallout, and let’s say you take the (I think more popular route) of talking to the Master rather than fighting him: you watch someone realize the weight of the atrocities they’ve committed, realize they had no purpose, and then kill himself and everyone there after you personally have gone through actually psychic hell to approach him. Then, you get kicked out of your only home you’ve ever known!

Fallout 2? You home is decimated, your people traumatized, and you must rebuild it from the ground up. You defeated the Enclave, but they took something from you that can’t be replaced or forgotten.

New Vegas… god there’s so much there and there’s another point I want to make to this post- make I can make it feed into this but- the Mojave gets ravaged by war. No matter who wins, atrocities will continue to have been done and to be committed. There’s deadly forces on the horizon who don’t give a SHIT about this petty war and the fucking dumb politics of these major powers. It will hit any faction hard and unmercifully. And there was still a war that consumed an entire land. So companion has a truly “happy” end. They’re all scarred and broken and have to make peace with the path they’ve chosen. People win, but they don’t win, y’know?

And I wish- as much as I love these tragedies- I wish there was more… hope. I wish that the world of Fallout allowed the brightness to shine through a little brighter. To allow the people who try to rebuild into something new to be more successful, to be allowed to take the narrative into their hands, bECAUSE HOLY FUCK DOES THIS DARK ASS WORLD HAVE SO MUCH MORE HOPE THEN ITS EVER GIVEN CREDIT FOR.

Begin Again is a rallying cry for me. The end of Lonesome Road, if you spare Ulysses, is a rebellion against the fucking cycle of violence and hatred. You want to BUILD something. Create rather than just regurgitate the old world into something more twisted than it’s corpse.

Surviving the purifier? Rebelling against the notion that you must die, that you must be a martyr, taking your life into your own hands? Watching a source of clean water be handed out for free and spread across the Wastes? Fucking! Breathing new life into Harold and so he breathes new life into the Earth?

Living even though you’ve lost all your family? Getting a new one in the people who follow you? Helping people rebuild the Commonwealth after it’s been terrorized and destroyed? Leaving this world stronger and safer then when you came into it?

Honestly- this post got away from me. @persephotea got me in my Fallout 4 thoughts (of which I have so many and they’re always trying to burst out of me) and I got to thinking about what I try to write about in my fics. Hope. Hope, hope, hope.

I choose a kinder Fallout world not because I’m trying to soften the edges, but because I want to believe that humanity has such an ability to be kind if it chooses to. That a world ravaged by destruction would CHOOSE kindness and growth. That despite all the darkness and selfishness, people would choose to Begin Again.

It’s all a fucking tragedy, but that’s only if the cycle continues. We can change it. We can end it. Just gotta choose to do it.

If you got this far, thank you for reading my tired thoughts and please please please share yours. I want to hear your thoughts so bad. Okay okay, I’ll post now.

#astra rambles #astra meta #fallout 4 #fallout new vegas #fallout 3 #It’s early morning and I need to go back to sleep #but these thoughts needed to be typed up #all these games have flaws BUT HOLY FUCK never ever think I hate any of them #there’s so much there #I feel so much about this world #it means so fuckinf much to me and I just #know that I love them #that I want to see something bloom from them

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brainrotdotorg · 8 months

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Thinking very hard about how enjoyable the swap AU Is on its own when we switch around Harry and Kim. Like it could just be left at that. Or. We go deeper. We get silly with it. We swap more than just the main two.

Why don’t we switch Soona with Plaisance and Tiago with Neha, so the bookish believer in the supra-natural thinks the crab-woman living in the rafters of a church and making dice as a tribute to the father of silence is actually some kind of ghost. She tasks Annette to help her with rituals and whatnot to contact the spirit. Soona runs a dying business selling radiocomputers and assorted technology, constantly pestered by the construction worker upstairs.

And what if we get even more silly with it? What if we switched Klaasje and Garte? The blonde bombshell working the bar hates if you call her a bartender, she is a woman who manages THREE cafeterias, and she deserves respect, god damn it. She tried to ask out her coworker, a butch redhead who normally mans the bar, but the timing was inappropriate and she scared her away. Now, she has to deal with attempting to play off the failure while managing the cafeteria on her own. The kind of schlubby guy is actually… weirdly charming, in that purple jumpsuit, smoking a cigarette. He’s used his wiles for corporate espionage, and is on the run, he’s got new passports in a buoy just off the coast, and he is very experienced at becoming a new person. No one pays attention to someone who looks like him. His natural appearance is the perfect disguise.

Let’s get more ridiculous. The Hardies and the Speedfreaks. Acele is a young woman studying to be a lawyer, her history with her father’s crimes has made her intimately familiar with the law. Which is perfect, because the group of three anti-authority vigilantes that have taken over the now-defunct union box need someone to watch their asses. A group of downtrodden men in a church seek new life through music (that's their cover story- in reality, they just want to sell speed, but through intimidation tactics, theyve kept people out of their business.)

Switch Pissfaggot and Fuck The World with Steban and Ulixes. PF and FTW run an “exclusive gang” (that they formed because the couldn’t make it as SKULLS) and basically just spout philosophical bullshit back and forth at one another, trying to bring back true punk. The Student Communist and Echo Maker have jackets that have their names on the back of them, and you can find them talking about jacking Kim’s car— you know, for communist reasons. Giving back to the proletariat.

Gaston and Rene swapping with Tommy and Call me Manana. The jolly older man sitting on the railing is part of the Union, he’s seen jams like this come and go, he’s more than used to it. The lorry driver is an ornery old guy, just wants to do his job and do it with dignity and honor— even though that job is just transporting FALN goods. Tommy and Manana are two old friends, guys who grew up together, young during the war. There’s a girl they both like, they’re passing her back and forth. Tommy wonders why Manana doesn’t just settle down with her, she clearly loves him. Manana says he can’t, he’s living the boiadero lifestyle. Or maybe there's something else that's keeping him from tying the knot...

What if we got sad with it. Lillienne and Uuno swap. And with them come their kids. Uuno is a fisherman who lost his wife, and now has to care for his rowdy son and a runaway child all on his own. You don’t learn much about Lillienne except that she’s a passed out drunk, her apartment is a mess, and her twin boys, too young to be in such a situation, are milling around behind the fence, looking at a corpse.

Who is that corpse they're looking at? His field nickname was "Idiot Doom Spiral". Across the water lock, a drunk named Lely ferments with his associates, slurring about how they used to be big shit.

More notable swaps- Goracy Kubek and the FRITTTE teen swap places, Sylvie takes Ruby's spot, I don't know how it would work, but Measurehead and the smoker swapping while the babes and sunday friend swap places as well... that one's just funny. cant do anything with it though lmfao

#disco elysium #we're getting a little goofy with it today

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jazzthatonewriterchick · 1 year

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Here, Kitty, Kitty (18+ Fic)

Pairing: Aizawa x Black!Catgirl!Reader

Synopsis: In which you find yourself in the weirdest predicament after you’re scooped up and taken to a cat cafe after you decide to take the streets to fight some crime, and you’re adopted by your very anti-social and hot coworker Aizawa aka Eraserhead.

Story Warnings: Smutty smut, 18+ (MINORS GET AWAY), Swearing, Adult!Reader, Ear and Tail Stroking, Light Degradation, Spanking, Exhibitionism, Multiple Positions, Creampie, Unprotected PIV Sex, Facial, Scent Play, Collaring, Deepthroat, Cunnlingus, Begging, Edgeplay, Power Play, Rope Play/Shibari, Master Kink, Some Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Some Action

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters mentioned in this fic. However, as this is my writing, I do not give permission for my work to be reposted on any other sites that are not from my own accounts. Thank you!

Writer’s Note: Thank you all so, so, soooo much for the love on this story! I'll be writing some brand new shit soon! Stay safe! -Jazz

Read on AO3 here!

Other Chapters: One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-One. Twenty-Two. Twenty-Three. Twenty-Four. Twenty-Five.

*************

TEN.

When the next day comes, it brings with it some unseasonably warm weather that Aizawa feels when he wanders into the living room and finds you gone.

He isn’t sure how you got out since the windows are locked, but he supposes that cats have their ways. He feels a twinge of disappointment at seeing you gone once again, but he knew that you would probably want to be outside and not cooped up in a dorm all day.

Plus, now that Eri has more hope that you’ll come home after your adventures, she seems much happier. Even when he wakes her up in time to get her ready to hang with Hitoshi before his classes begin, she is a giggly, upbeat little ball of energy.

“Maybe she’ll bring back a present,” she happily says as she and Aizawa walk hand and hand across campus. “Or maybe she’s with other kitties! You think she’ll let us meet them, Daddy?” The way she looks up at him excitedly makes his heart clench. “If she trusts us enough and has friends, sure,” he chuckles.

During the entire day of work, Aizawa is feeling pretty good, though one thing could make his day go a whole lot better: seeing you. He purposely has stopped by your office a few times when taking bathroom breaks just to see you, but every time he does, you’re never in. He thinks that maybe you just took off today or perhaps your hours are different this week.

Whatever it is, it’s none of his business, but he can't help the disappointment he feels at not seeing your pretty face or cute little ears.

He has no idea why since he ends up becoming a rock-hard, blushing mess over them regardless. He doesn’t know how he was able to say even one coherent sentence to you while he and Eri were eating ice cream yesterday afternoon. Maybe Eri was the missing link. Or maybe the ice cream. It’s been proven chocolate works as an aphrodisiac.

Aizawa can’t help but feel wistful about his conversation yesterday with you. It was all so amazing that it felt like a good dream to him–the easiness he felt speaking to you; the way such joy sparkled in your eyes; your musical laughs that he wanted to hear again and again; the way you engaged Eri that made him want to put a baby in you himself. It all felt so good. So right. He can't help but feel like that may never happen to him and you again.

He’s just too damn anti-social. Too shy. Too awkward. What would he be able to say without Eri linking the two of you together? How can he speak to you, especially with those damn ears and that tail he wants to desperately stroke?

Where does he even begin to learn how to charm and woo a woman when he hasn’t had the urge to do so since high school?

He knows just the person to talk about this with, so after the day is through and school is out, he and Mic take a trip to the faculty dorms’ private gym. They leave Eri in the kids’ section that Nezu specifically created for her and any other faculty members that may have a child. So far, she’s the only one occupying the space.

While Eri colors and sings along to the Little Mermaid playing on the TV overhead, Aizawa gives Mic the rundown on his dilemma as he does his bicep curls with some 16 lb dumbells.

Mic is overjoyed as he does his cool-down stretches, his long legs splayed out in front of him. “Ah, I’m so glad you’re coming to me with this, Shouta!” he happily says, grinning at his friend. “We need to talk like this more! It’ll do you good to open up about your concerns and anxieties with the ways of women.”

“Don't get used to it,” Aizawa grumbles, giving Mic a fixed stare from the bench. “I’m only tellin’ you because you’re the only one I semi-trust with this.”

Mic just laughs as he continues his cool-down stretches, pressing down onto his knees. “And I only wanna talk to her because she seems nice. I don’t want her to think I hate people or whatever.”

Mic glances at him curiously. “But you do hate people.”

Aizawa flushes as he bends forward, still doing his curls. “Well, yes, but she’s too nice to be all people,” he argues. “She actually gives a fuck about her job and the way she engaged in conversation with Eri was just…”

He trails off and smiles dreamily as his mind fills with visions of you and Eri together, in your own little world. The way you encouraged her to be her little bubbly, hyper self was the cutest shit he’d ever seen. You’d be a great mom, he knows…if you aren’t one already, that is.

Something in Aizawa wilts at the possibility of someone having you–maybe a partner or a husband. You never talked about being married or dating, especially to him, so he knows thinking this way is stupid. But dammit, he just can’t help himself or these intrusive thoughts. Feeling eyes on him, he looks at Mic, finding a goofy, knowing grin on his face. “Stop lookin’ at me like that,” he growls.

“Man, I don’t know why you don’t just admit that you like the girl!” Mic laughs, standing up and raising his arms, lean with muscle, high. “C’mon; she’s sweet, intelligent, loves kids, and has those cute lil’ cat parts. She’s your dream girl!”

Aizawa rolls his eyes, thinking his friend is just being overly dramatic as usual. “Just ask her out one day when she’s free. Simple as that!”

Aizawa softly grunts as he lays the dumbbells down at his feet, giving his arms a break. “I don’t just ask people out,” he huffs, frustrated. “And I’m not askin’ her out, to begin with. I just want to have a conversation with her without feeling awkward. I want us to be strictly friends.”

Mic just shakes his head pityingly at the professor. “Whatever you saaaay,” he sing-songs, obviously thinking differently. “But you should still ask her to lunch or something to get to know her if you don’t feel comfortable doing it around us in the break room.” He snaps his fingers, a lightbulb flicking in his head. “Maybe for some ramen! Everybody likes ramen, right?”

“Who likes ramen?” you suddenly ask from the door. Aizawa nearly chokes on the water he’s chugging down when he spots you in a bright yellow sports bra and black yoga pants that should be illegal on you, especially with the way you cut out the back so your tail can breathe. It swishes happily at your ankles when you spot Mic.

“I thought I heard your voice,” you giggle. “I could hear you all the way down the hall.” You come farther into the room with a dufflebag and Hydroflask.

As you do, your eyes fall onto Aizawa and your tail stops swishing. “Oh…sorry, I didn’t know you had company.” Aizawa’s mouth goes dry despite the water he just drank as he stares at you, forcing himself to not check you out.

Mic snickers quietly, already gathering his shit. “No, come in!” he enthusiastically insists. “I was just getting ready to leave. Gotta grade papers now or else I’ll never get to ‘em. But you don’t worry your pretty ears; Shouta here is a great gym buddy.” He turns to Aizawa and gives him a wink. “See you two tomorrow!” he chirps before he practically rushes out of the gym.

Aizawa makes a mental note to kill his friend and hide the body later.

When you walk farther into the room, you barely spare him a glance. Though it pains him, he can’t exactly blame you because he keeps his eyes down at his feet too as he proceeds to finish his bicep curls. Out of his peripheral, he watches as you lay a yoga mat down from the row of shelves underneath the mirror sitting in front of you. You wipe it down with a sanitized wipe before kicking off your shoes, plugging in your earbuds, and getting right to the warm-up stretches.

Aizawa can’t help but watch, noticing how flexible you are. The way you bend this way and that, your muscles moving with every pose, makes his cock grow embarrassingly hard in his sweats.

The air between you is tense and thick with something he can’t quite describe: Awkwardness? Definitely. Desire? Possibly, on his side. He just can’t help himself when he begins to acknowledge how good you look in yoga pants.

He quickly looks away, instead opting to look towards the empty treadmills on the other side of the room. What he wouldn’t give to get a handful of your ass, squeeze and spank the firm yet soft cheeks, and stroke that tail that invades his nightly thoughts. Maybe you’d let him dig his fingers into the hole of your pants and rip it further, revealing the cute little panties hiding underneath. Or maybe you’d have none on at all. It would give Aizawa the perfect chance to pull those asscheeks apart and finally put his face in it as his tongue relishes the taste of your sweet, perfect, wet little–

“Mind if I use these?” you ask, suddenly next to him. He nearly jumps, finding you pointing at the eight lb dumbbells that Mic left.

He finds his voice after swallowing the lump in his throat. “Go ahead; I’m not usin’ ‘em.” He hopes that sounded the least bit of kind. You smile in thanks though and silently take the dumbbells from the spot Mic left them in.

He silently and sneakily watches as you begin to do your leg and glute workouts with some dumbbell lifts added in the mix: squats; lunges; kickbacks. All done right in his face. Do you know what you’re doing to him? Can you see the bulge growing in his sweats? Obviously not since your eyes are facing straight ahead, focusing strictly on your workout.

‘Fuck this,’ he thinks, sexually frustrated. He isn’t going to resort to being a perv. Quickly, he puts his dumbbells down and walks out of range to the other side of the gym farthest away from you. He walks straight up to the pull-up bar where he left his duffle bag for a specific reason. He usually goes for either cardio or dumbbells first to get his arms warmed up before proceeding with the “real” workout.

Aizawa takes his scarves out of his duffle and carefully wraps them around the pull-up bar, making sure to pull it tight enough so the scarves don’t unravel. Once finished, he wraps his fists up in each end of the scarves and begins to do his special arm exercises.

He uses his scarves as one would use resistance bands to build their upper arm strength, doing warmups to get the blood flowing in his arms. He concentrates on his bicep and tricep curls, and wrist exercises to keep his arms limber yet controlled, sweat beginning to drip into his eyes from how hard he’s going into his workout. He is finally able to focus on something other than you. ‘Thank God.’

Feeling like his arms are warmed up enough, he grips his scarves into his fists and pulls himself up, his arms clenching from his full body weight. He straightens his arms and crosses one foot over the other as he straightens his back. He envisions himself on a tightrope, forcing himself to stay still despite his arms beginning to rest since they’re the only things holding him up.

Grunting softly from the burn in his arm muscles, he relaxes his arms only to slowly flip backwards, his movements controlled from many years of training. He finally lands back on his feet, bending his knees slightly to avoid injuring himself. When he releases his scarves, his hands are red and his fingers ache from gripping them so tightly. He’s gotten used to that though. It is what comes with the pains of being a pro.

“That was really cool,” you suddenly say from behind him in the mirror. Your eyes are trained straight on him, wide with astonishment.

He turns around, breathing heavily and wiping the sweat out of his eyes. “Sorry!” You blurt, looking ashamed at your staring. “I’ve just never seen anyone do that before. You work out with your scarves?”

He notices the way your fluffy ears droop in embarrassment and he smirks to himself. “To keep myself familiar with ‘em,” he huffs before taking a sip of his water. “And to come up with new techniques. It never hurts to rehearse from time to time.”

He goes to take a seat on the floor to proceed with some push-ups, but as he does, a searing pain enters his lower back that makes him hiss. You stare on, concerned. “Just my back,” he reassures you. “Don’t worry about it.” The last thing he wants is for you to see him as old or decrepit.

But his body betrays him once again as he tries to get into position, a sharp pain in his lower back stabbing him. “Ah, shit!” he swears, his hand immediately flying to his lower back to rub at the ache.

It doesn’t help at all. He must’ve not done as much stretching earlier as he’d hoped. He glances at you, expecting you to be laughing at him–the sight of Eraserhead suffering from back pain in his early 30s must be hilarious.

But instead, you just look worried. “Maybe you should try this.” You slowly sit down in a crisscrossed position, your feet touching one another and lean forward so your back is straight and your chest is touching the floor. “This pose really helps with back pain. I do this as much as I can since I sit so much during work.”

Aizawa hesitates slightly, not wanting you to pity him. But with the way your soft eyes are coaxing him to follow, he mirrors your position anyway. As he slowly leans forward to straighten his back, he can feel some of that tension and ache beginning to evaporate. You smile in approval.

“Now stretch your arms up overhead,” you instruct him, raising your arms up to the sky. He follows, doing his best to hide back a blush. He feels like a little kid following your every move.

“Good; now place your hands on the floor and stretch your arms out as far as you can go in front of you. Don’t push yourself.” He follows you, raising his arms up before falling forward, his arms stretched out in front of him. He breathes deeply, allowing the stretches to do their work. He can feel the tension and aches in his muscles leaving him, his body recovering after his workout.

“Feel good?” you ask, a smile in your voice. He hums in response, his eyes fluttering closed. “The butterfly position helps too! Looks like this.” He lifts from his position, finding you sitting upright with your hands holding your feet. Your knees begin to move up and down, mimicking those of a butterfly’s wings.

Aizawa follows, feeling the stretch in his hamstrings and inner thighs. He raises an eyebrow at your smile like you’re trying to hold back a laugh. “You’re slouching,” you playfully giggle, rising from your seat to assist him. His heart begins to hammer in his chest as you kneel next to him. You’re so close. “May I?” you ask, giving him a soft, round-eyed look.

He nods, unable to speak. You move behind him and place a tentative hand on his lower back. He nearly shivers at your touch. Your hand is so warm. He wants to feel your touch everywhere. Not to mention the scent of your shampoo. What is that? Coconut? It’s driving him insane. All he can think about is that scent being all over him after he’s done fucking you.

“Just keep your back straight,” you utter, your breath fanning his cheek. “Grab onto your ankles for leverage if you need it.” Your voice is soft and inviting, coaxing him out of his comfort zone.

Swallowing harshly and forcing himself to not pop a boner, he does as you instruct: he straightens his back, puffs out his chest, presses his shoulders back, and grabs onto his feet. “Perfect!” you giggle, applauding him. “You’re a natural at this.”

“So are you,” he blurts, his voice lower than normal. “A-At teaching, I mean.” You smile at the compliment as you rise to your feet. “I used to teach yoga on YouTube as a way to pay for school. I had a dream of opening up my own yoga studio, but I guess my calling was to be a counselor.”

Aizawa commits the new info to his mental file cabinet on you. He can see you being a teacher in anything, knowing you’d do a good job with such a soft yet commanding aura. “I’ve been told my flexibility would make me a great hero,” you snicker, balling up your fists for a mock fight with him.

He chuckles, grunting as he stands. “It takes more than flexibility to be a hero.”

You laugh at his statement, hands on your hips. “You say that even though you have back pain in your thirties,” you retort boldly, then flush with embarrassment when Aizawa raises a brow at you. “I read everyone’s birthday on the faculty birthday calendar.”

Aizawa practically melts. Why the fuck do you have to be so goddamn cute? “Back pain or not, as a seasoned professional pro, I also have strength, both upper and lower, technique, and strict control over my quirk when it comes to hand-to-hand combat. You’ll need it when you’re fighting villains.”

You cock your head to the side, a purse in your pouty, kissable lips. “Show me some of them techniques then,” you playfully challenge, crossing your arms over your chest. “Since you’re so seasoned and so sure I don’t have what it takes.”

Aizawa cocks a brow at you, feeling a zing of electricity shoot through him at this newfound side of you–you’re so playful and sassy. It’s fucking hot. “Alright,” he sighs, “but you don’t complain when you twist a muscle.”

He begins to walk over to the right side of the gym which is known as the training portion of the room. Several punching bags and makeshift people made out of sandbags sit there, ready to be used by any seasoned or up-and-coming pro to train for missions and fights.

Aizawa and you stand in front of a makeshift person, its head and body two heavy burlap sacks filled with sand. He turns to you, stepping into the roles of a trainer and sensei. “So, we’ll start with the basics. Start by facing your opponent and analyzing them.”

You nod and turn to face the sandbag person, eyeing them up. He resists the urge to laugh at your cuteness. “If they have a quirk, what kind is it? Can you spot a weakness in it or your opponent’s body? Can you spot a pressure point perhaps? Maybe a place you can sink those claws into.”

You glance at him, straight-faced. “Ha, ha,” you deadpan. "I don’t even have claws.” Aizawa thinks that’s a lie. He’d opt to find out in his bed (or yours; he ain’t too picky) while he’s balls deep inside of you and your hands are gripping his back.

“So your opponent is coming at you,” he continues, willing the nasty thoughts away. “But you’re ready though. You’ll start by placing your foot on your least dominant side behind the foot on your dominant side.”

You do as he instructs, placing one foot behind the other. “Tilt your hips a little more so they’re angled to the side but facing me.” You attempt to do that as well, but can’t seem to angle your hips enough so they are parallel to your feet. A laugh in the form of a huff leaves his nostrils as he comes forward.

“May I?” he asks, his eyes flicking up to yours. Silently, you nod. “Like this.”

He places his hands on your hips which is a horrible idea. Now his cock his throbbing, begging to be released from its prison in his sweats. Your skin is so warm from the slip of your stomach that he gets from your pants riding low on your waist. Your body is tense, but you don’t stop him as he twists your waist to face him and angles your hips so they are straight.

“Now you’re gonna use your dominant leg to kick up and out, right at your opponent’s chest. Put your full weight into it.” He steps back, allowing you to act out the move. You turn to your opponent and, with an inhale, you kick your leg up and out at the middle of your opponent’s sandbag body, grunting as you do. It barely moves.

You turn to him with a shameful expression. “Let’s try that again,” he chuckles. “Push onto your opponent when your foot connects with their chest to push them down and away from you. Put all your weight into your leg.”

Once again, you try, letting out a forceful grunt as your foot connects with the sandbag. You push your opponent away, causing it to teeter slightly on its stand, and then fall backward.

You gape down at it, an excited gasp leaving your lips. “I did it!” you shout in triumph, your ears and tail frazzled. He nods, crossing his muscled arms over his chest. “Not bad for a rookie,” he playfully says. “Maybe you’ve got some potential…some.”

You turn to him, a mischievous and bold glint in your pretty, brown eyes. You purse your lips at him and lay your hands on your hips the way he wants to. “I’d say the same about you with yoga,” you retort, earning a chuckle from him and a surge from his cock.

You both stand there for a moment, staring at each other. No blinking. No talking. Just a surge of electricity that Aizawa can feel in the air. It’s intoxicating, dangerous, and so delicious. His eyes glance at your lips, zeroing in on how plump and glossy they are. He could just lean in and kiss you right now.

His phone suddenly goes off in his back pocket, making you both jump. Growling deeply at the ruined moment, he pulls his phone out and finds the reminder he set for 5 PM. “Shit,” he hisses. “I should be cooking dinner around this time for Eri. I have to go.”

“Oh, okay!” you reply, and he catches a glimpse of what he thinks is disappointment in your pretty eyes. Or is that just what he wants to see?

“I should be gettin’ back too,” you say, already moving to gather your things. “You just reminded me that I need to start cooking too before I end up ordering takeout again.”

Aizawa watches you, his heart clenching painfully. He doesn’t want to leave. He doesn’t want this moment to end with you. Can’t it just last a minute longer? “I could walk you back to your dorm if you want,” he suggests with a passive shrug. “It’s only safe.”

He keeps his tone tight and easy, but he’s dying for you to say yes. You look at him wide-eyed, shocked that he even offered. The little smile and nod you give him just about fills him to the brim with relief. So you don’t think that he’s a creep. Great start.

After you both gather your things, Aizawa collects Eri from the playroom, finding her sleeping on the floor. “Time to go home, puddin’,” he whispers to her as he scoops her up into his arms. She sleepily groans, her head lulling against his chest. Her eyes then flutter open to stare up at him. “Daddy, why are you smiling so much?” she groggily asks. He shushes her in response.

Luckily, the little girl falls right back to sleep as Aizawa accompanies you on your journey to your dorm. It doesn’t take long, but the last few minutes of feeling you beside him are all he needs. When you finally make it to your door, you give him a grateful smile. “Thanks for walking me back.”

He nods silently, willing himself to say something more. He thinks back to Mic’s words, conjuring up all the confidence he can muster to ask for your number. “Um, maybe we can do this again sometime?” he asks, a shy blush adorning his cheeks. “Just in case you ever decide to you wanna fuck up a sandbag person again.”

You blink at him, alarmingly quiet. He knew he’d fuck this up. It was all wishful thinking. Damn Mic and his advice. “O-Or you don’t have to,” he quickly adds. “No pressure. I just thought that–”

“I’d like that,” you interrupt, giving him a dazzling smile. “I can give you my number or…” You trail off, looking just as shy.

Relief floods Aizawa’s body as he gives you his number instead, his heart pounding as you type his digits into your contacts. That’s all it took, and yet Aizawa feels like he just walked on the moon. “See you tomorrow then,” he mumbles, abruptly turning on his heel to avoid grinning like an idiot at you.

“Shouta, wait!” you suddenly shout. He abruptly stops and turns to face you, finding you to still be standing at your door. “I-I’ve been meaning to tell you something,” you weakly say.

He blinks at you, noticing how nervous you suddenly look. His stomach immediately plummets, wondering what the flip in your demeanor could mean. Are you having second thoughts about his number? Are you with someone already?

Finally, you sigh, your shoulders slumping in defeat. “Nevermind; just be safe.” You give him a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes before you turn, unlock your door, and disappear into your dorm. Aizawa doesn’t have time to ponder what just happened. He silently walks back to his dorm with Eri in his arms and dinner on his mind, expecting a quiet, normal end to the night.

However, when he arrives at his door and spots the little black cat that has stolen Eri’s heart sitting by his dorm door, he realizes that tonight will be anything but normal. “Look, Eri,” he coos, smiling down at your little cat form as you push your furry body into his legs, your trail curling around his ankles.

“Our visitor is back.”

#shouta aizawa #shoutaaa #smutty smut #my fic shit #my works #here kitty kitty #bnha smut #black coded reader #black fanfic writer #black writers #aizawa x black!reader #shouta aizawa x black!reader

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eruden-writes · 9 months

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Room & Board - Part 18

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The shock of the run-in with Lachlan runs out by the time the three of you get home, the sun already beginning to set. Not even five minutes through the door, your brain is already churning with ideas, ways to fight back, ways to save Tabaeus. As you kick off your shoes and stride further into the living room, turning on lights, you turn to your two companions, “Alright, he gave us a day. We should plan what to do.”

“What do you mean?” Ewan shoots you a curious look as he flops down on the couch. There’s something wilted about his posture, as if he was a dog exhaustedly returning home after being dumped elsewhere.

Eager to get planning, your feet propel you into a back and forth pace as your hands gesticulate. “We could booby trap the house. If it’s all anti-vampire stuff, Tabaeus would need to stay somewhere safe, but-”

“No. There’s no way to defeat Lachlan.” Tabaeus suddenly steps between you and Ewan, casting a desperate expression between the two of you. Their movement has halted your pacing.

Your eyebrows furrow, confusion dampening your verve as your hands fall to yoru sides. “But-”

“There is no way,” Tabaeus hisses, that desperation in their eyes tinged with miserable fear. Their pointed ears droop a little as they step away, turning their back on you and Ewan. Removing his hat and setting it on a nearby hat rack, Tabaeus’s voice softens and cracks, “He always finds me, always drags me back.”

Ewan sits a little straighter, his concern piquing. You and the werewolf share a worried look, but say nothing. With the appearance of Lachlan, you’re not surprised that memories have finally triggered in Tabaeus.

Lachlan had been… a lot to take in. Intimidating and powerful, affecting a whole library with some sort of enthrallment. An icy sort of vileness in his movements and words. The promise of danger.

But you and Ewan don’t have the experience, the traumatic memories, that Tabaeus undoubtedly holds in reference to the other vampire. It’s a bit disheartening that, after so long trying to figure out Tabaeus’s amnesia, Lachlan is there to sully the recollections.

“What did he mean by punishments?” The words come out of you before you can consider them. Tabaeus’s back stiffens at the question, but they remain turned away. Licking your lips, you take a step forward and softly push, “Tabaeus?”

At the creak of the floorboard beneath your foot, the vampire half-turns to you. They don’t look at you and you get the feeling they can’t bring their gaze to you. Too ashamed or miserable to catch your eye.

After a long moment, Tabaeus sighs and turns around fully. “He killed Kieran and… others. The ones I sheltered with in all of my escape attempts.”

Conflict scrunches Tabaeus’s features further as their hand presses to their own chest. “If the people I am with have other ideas that could be construed as a punishment, Lachlan sits back and observes.”

Your lips thin, eyes narrow as you remember the autopsy scars marring Tabaeus’s torso. You don’t want to imagine what other torture Lachlan sat back and watched. It’s hard not to let your brain feed you awful scenarios.

“There has to be some way,” you say with soft earnestness as you touch Tabaeus’s arm. Their attention flicks to you, quick as a flinch, and your eyes flick over their face, tallying all the anguish crimping their features.

“No, nothing.” Shaking their head, Tabaeus dislodges your touch gently. They swallow heavily again, fighting down discomfort to continue speaking, “I suspect Lachlan can track me, hear me. Peek into where I am at. If not him, then others perhaps.”

Ewan has pushed himself off the couch by now and stands behind you, dallying at the edges of whatever is happening between you and Tabaeus. But at Tabaeus’s words, he presses, “Others?”

“Anyone who has used my… services.” The words sound bitter on Tabaeus’s lips, mixed with shame and frustration.

“For memories?” You’re still not entirely sure what that meant. The worrier in you thinks it’s something sexual or perhaps meant for a litany of experiences. Like a sex worker that will allow anything to happen to them, despite how they feel about it and despite little compensation. But you don’t think that’s all there is to it, even if a lot of vampire media loves the thought of bloodsucking debauchery and parties.

“Yes,” Tabaeus hisses, their lips puckering and eyes narrowing. “For memories.”

Lachlan had said something about making the memory of himself fresh in Tabaeus’s head, before they did a forced feeding. Something clanks in your thoughts, trying to piece together the meaning. Whenever Tabaeus fed on you, you saw things, hadn’t you? And there were moments where Tabaeus didn’t seem like themselves.

Did Lachlan mean that Tabaeus was used for memories in a more literal way?

“What does that mean exactly?” Ewan voices the question your brain suddenly churns over. He’s hovering behind your shoulder, his body heat warm. There’s a tingle along your back, as if you can feel the werewolf’s own anxiety.

“I am a vampire created to store the memories of other vampires.” Even as they answer, Tabaeus doesn’t bring their red eyes to your face or toward Ewan. They speak slowly, picking their words carefully as they explain something that, hours earlier, even they knew nothing about. “A receptacle for others to deposit or withdraw memories as they wish. As such, I am not supposed to make memories of my own, so they may utilize me to the fullest potential.”

Their explanation dips further into bitterness and frustration the longer they speak. Grim lines crease the corner of Tabaeus’s mouth.

“Why would they need that?” Ewan presses, eyebrows furrowed with confusion.

“Our brains are not meant to store centuries or millennia of memories," they explain, pressing fingers to their temple. As if the explanation causes some deep-seeded pain. “Remembrances deteriorate over time. Well, unless a coven has a Memory Keeper.”

Ewan voices the outrage that you feel, “Then let them make another Memory Keeper!”

“According to Lachlan’s memories, I am one of the last. He was not even my original owner,” they say, disgust radiating over the last word. “Ironic, the skills and ritual meant to create one of my own has faded from recollection.”

Driven by the unfairness of it all, you take a step closer and reach out to the vampire. “But we still have to try and stop-”

Before you can touch Tabaeus, they grab your hand in both of theirs. They clasp it tightly, the cool of their palms an unwanted balm against the heat of your adrenaline and determination. The fact Tabaeus is finally looking at you is a small consolation.

“Amata, I care for you. I love you. I do not want to risk you suffering Lachlan’s wrath.” The words come out rushed and watery as they give your hand a squeeze. Your heart stutters at their declaration, your mouth opening to say something but no words come. Their red eyes flicker to Ewan, continuing the earnest and pained timbre as they add, “Nor do I want that to happen to you. A werewolf would be tortured far worse than a human.”

A glance at Ewan tells you he agrees with Tabaeus’s words, his shoulders slumped and a discontented frown on their lips. From the way he holds himself, you can almost imagine wolfish ears drooping down and a sad sagging tail. Despite all this, Ewan quietly asks, “Then what do we do?”

“I will get my things in order and comply with Lachlan. It is the only way I can be sure neither of you are harmed.”

You can see where Tabaeus thinks the situation is unwinnable. A vile master of sorts that may be able to track or see through Tabaeus’s own eyes. If not Lachlan, perhaps others. Which made the situation worse, since even if they dispatched one enemy, more may come in their place. That wasn’t even considering the actual experience Tabaeus has.

However, you can’t help but want to fight. Rolling over and just letting Lachlan take Tabaeus sours your stomach. “But-”

“Please, this is hard enough as it is.” “Do not fight me on this. I do not wish to enthrall you and wipe your mind of me, but I will if I must.”

“Tabae-” They swoop forward, not letting you finish your plaintive dissent. Their desperate lips catch yours, their palms cradling the sides of your face. The force of the gesture makes you stumble backward into Ewan, whose warm hands catch you by the hips.

Uncertainty pulses from the werewolf, his fingers curling into you. “Tabaeus, I don’t think-”

Ewan’s disgruntled words cut off as the vampire breaks from you and lunges for him. The werewolf yelps as Tabaeus grabs him by the hair, dragging him into a kiss of their own. It has the same level of desperation as the kiss they bestowed on you.

When Tabaeus next pulls back, they hold you and Ewan closer, lowering their head between the two of you. Pained and miserable, Tabaeus sighs, “Please, allow me to have one more night, one more good memory, before it ends.”

Tension echoes along your body and you can feel similar uncertainty radiate from Ewan. Both of you are stiff, even as your arm reaches around Tabaeus and your hand brushes down their back. An ache throbs through your chest. You’d like nothing more than to comfort the vampire, give them another good night, but your heart won’t comply. “Ewan?”

“Yeah?” The werewolf’s reply nearly comes out as a whisper.

Hesitance causes you to pause for a beat, mentally struggling with your next words. Finally, you dismally ask, “How can we stop Tabaeus?”

The vampire tenses against you, an almost imperceptible whine keening from their throat. “Do not, amata.”

After his own beat of reluctance, Ewan finally answers you in a soft, sober tone, “I can go full wolf and wrestle him down into… whatever he sleeps in. Wrap it in chains, put it behind anti-vampire protections so Lachlan can’t get to them but they won’t be able to get out.”

Even as Ewan talks about the options, he doesn’t sound convinced. If you were truthful, you doubt either of you want to go that route. It was one thing to have Tabaeus’s cooperation, and another thing entirely to lock them down against their will.

“Enough!” The snarl lights fast from Tabaeus’s lips as they forcefully push you and Ewan away. The power of the shove sends you flying into the far wall, air knocked from your lungs. Across the room, you hear Ewan land against one of the end tables with a grunt of pain as wood splinters beneath him.

Sparing a short glance at Ewan, you can tell the werewolf is okay. Perhaps a little sore and shamed but overall alright. Your attention jumps back to Tabaeus, your eyes widening as you take in the vampire’s state.

They have ripped most of their outfit off, red tears streaming down their cheeks. Whatever fabric still clings to their body has darkened, moldered as if it has been in the ground for ages. Lights flicker around them as their hair plasters to them, becoming a layer of short fur that creeps over their body. Their pointed ears have grown large, wide, bat-like.

To your left, you hear the telltale cracks and snarls of Ewan shifting. You don’t even need to glance over to know he’s gone full lycan, a heady canine scent tinging the air.

“I have made my decision,” Tabaeus growls, their red eyes glowing behind the still intact sunglasses. Their eyes flicker from you to Ewan, their words taking a rougher edge, “Do not try me, either of you.”

Even with their shoulders hunched, it feels like they tower over you. Innate power crackles through the air, heavy and dark.

Recollections of your first night meeting Tabaeus careen through your head. This was what they looked like, except with different disintegrating clothing. Inhumanly tall and lanky, claws bursting from their fingertips, eyes glowing in a dark-purple complexion and dark fur.

The sight makes residual fear stumble through your thoughts, but care and concern for Tabaeus refuses to let you back down. “I’m not going to just let you walk back into Lachlan’s control!”

“It is not your decision,” they snarl, their claws flexing with agitation.

A sense of hopelessness descends through your thoughts as you blink back tears. Faintly, you wonder if Tabaeus is projecting or if it’s your own dreadful feelings. “Just because you don’t think you can fight him-”

“I said enough!” Tabaeus slices their hand through the air, the action silencing you as they take a step forward. Before you can line up an argument, a brown furry figure tackles the vampire with a growl of their own. All you can do is stare as a fully shifted Ewan grapples with the transformed Tabaeus, fur and obscenities and growls flying.

It takes you a few breaths before your brain kicks you into gear. Attempting to separate the two would only get yourself hurt. Instead, a thought blooms in your head: The vampire hunter box. Was there anything in there that would incapacitate Tabaeus without killing them? You can’t remember, can’t recall.

Where did you even put the blasted thing?

Your feet are moving before you even think, making a beeline for the stairs and up to your bedroom. That’s right. You left it on your dresser, before heading to the library.

As you clamber upstairs, you hear a gnarl of rage behind you. That had to be Tabaeus, realizing your destination in your noisy ascent. Which meant the following growl was Ewan, returning the vampire’s attention to him.

The sounds below become fiercer, with wood splintering and glass breaking. Shoving the worry aside, you focus on getting to your bedroom, getting to the box.

Your lungs ache as you get to the landing, bruises from Tabaeus’s earlier toss throbbing along your back. On auto-pilot, you fly to your room and slam open the door, scrambling wildly to your dresser.

The box sits there, innocent and ignorant to the chaos below. Grabbing it, you throw the lid open and riffle through the contents. It’s not until you hear a loud crash downstairs, followed by a whimper, that your fingers start trembling.

“Amata.” Tabaeus’s voice echoes up from the stairs, just before you hear the creak of the wood underfoot.

Each resounding footstep breaks your concentration further as you try to make sense of the items in the box. Glass vials of water, presumably of the holy variety. The stairs creaked. Silver trinkets. The footfalls got to the landing. A crucifix. Wooden stakes. Closer, the footfalls echoed along the hall. A jar of beans. Outside the door, the steps paused. A hand mirror. A shadow filled the doorway, bringing with it a sense of deeper darkness.

Wildly you look up, blinking back tears.

The clothes on Tabaeus’s form hung like rags now, but it didn’t matter much. Fur coated the rest of their body, their face morphed into something somewhere between a bat and a human. In the scuffle with Ewan, they have lost their sunglasses, leaving you staring into familiarly terrifying glowing red eyes. They took a step forward, into your room. Inky darkness trailed at their back, like they brought the night with them.

Without much thought, you grab the jar of beans and fling it at Tabaeus. You’re not even sure if the jar hits them when it explodes in a cloud glittering shrapnel, little dry beans scattering. As the beans clatter on the floor, Tabaeus takes another step in, ignoring the mess.

Vampires do not obsessively count beans. One bit of lore determined useless.

Grabbing the box, you stumble backward, trying to gain distance between you and Tabaeus. Your hand rummages around in the box, until you feel the silver crucifix. With a shaking hand, you bring it up, holding it in front of you. “What did you do to Ewan?”

“He will be fine,” Tabaeus simply states, cocking their head to the side. Their glowing red eyes narrow on the religious symbol and you briefly hope it’s working. They dash your momentary reprieve by stepping forward once. Twice. Undeterred by the cross.

“Tabaeus, please. Let us help,” you plead, your shaking hand abandoning the cross to the floor.

“No!” The vampire’s word shakes the window panes in your room and sends dust floating down from your ceiling fan. They close the distance on you, eyes burning with frustration and pain. Their eyes rimmed red with bloody tears. “You read what happened to Kieran.”

As you continue to back away and grapple for something of use in the box, your fingertips graze the wood of a stake. Your stomach lurches at the very thought. If the other bits of lore failed, however, maybe a wooden stake wouldn’t kill Tabaeus. Maybe it would simply incapacitate them until you could figure something out.

Clinging to that hope, you try to buy a little more time. “But we can-”

You don’t get a chance to finish your plea as Tabaeus, a dark smear in the air, suddenly pins you to the bed. The wooden stake in your hand falls to the bed, bounces, and clatters to the floor. A shriek rends from you as your arms and legs lash out.

“Please, let us help!” Hot tears stream from your eyes as you struggle against the vampire, but it’s no use. They’re too strong. Their clawed fingers wrap tight to your wrists as they peer down at you. The expression they give you makes that pain in your chest ripple again and the tears come harder.

“My apologies, amata,” Tabaeus quietly says as they move your wrists to one palm and lean close to your neck.

Your struggles increase in desperation as you arch and dip your back, writhe under their hold, trying to shake off the vampire. “No!”

The singular word is all you can shriek as you feel the prick of Tabaeus’s fangs sink into your throat. A fuzzy feeling swallows your thoughts quickly as that strange suckling latches to your neck, but you still feel the tears stream down your cheeks. Sensations fill your head, your chest. Confusion and delight and fondness and happiness. Brief snatches of your time together saturate your conscious thoughts, bringing more of your own tears to your eyes.

Nothing lasts forever. Good things always end. The foreign words echo in your head. Not yours, not Tabaeus’s. Perhaps something they were told long ago, something that resonates in this very moment.

Further heat trails down your neck, but you know the tears aren’t your own. They are Tabaeus’s tears, staining your throat with further red streaks. Through the haze, a harder sob bubbles up from your chest. But your struggles have lessened, fallen slack. The world, your thoughts, your senses are dimming, turning dark.

In your quickly fading consciousness, you realize Tabaeus has let go of your hands. Their own grip at your shoulders, long spindly fingers trembling. Turning your face toward the hand on your right, away from Tabaeus’s feasting mouth, you find your sight blurring.

Before unconsciousness claims you, you press a gentle kiss to the back of their palm. Driven to somehow comfort the vampire, even at such a discordant juncture. Their fingers flex, claws digging into your skin as something akin to another sob bubbles up from their mouth.

That’s the last thing you hear as darkness pulls you under.

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